The last man

msp^

a I B RARY

OF THE
UNIVLRSITY
or ILLINOIS

Sk4£

V. \

cop. 2.

CENTRAL CIRCULATION BOOKSTACKS

The person charging this material is re-
sponsible for its return to the library from
which it was borrowed on or before the
Latest Date stamped below.

Theft/ imitilotion, and underlining of boeies ore reosofis
for dlMipllnary action and may rosulf In dUmlMol from
the University.
TO RENEW CALL TELEPHONE CENTER, M3-8400

UNIVEKSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN

OCT 26 1992
2661 »,2 Ku»i

When renewing by phone, write new due date below
previous due date. L162

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2010 with funding from

University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign

http://www.archive.org/details/lastman01shell

/

THE LAST MAN.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF FRANKENSTEIN.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

Let no man seek
Henceforth to be foretold what shall befall
Him or his children.

MitTOK.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1826.

SkackelU Arrowmitk, and Hodges, Johnson's-coiirt, ri«et street,

V, I
Cop. Z

i

INTRODUCTION.

I VISITED Naples in the year 1818. On the
Stli of December of that year, my companion
and I crossed the Bay, to visit the antiquities
which are scattered on the shores of Baiae. The
V translucent and shining waters of the calm sea
r covered fragments of old Roman villas, which
^'ere interlaced by sea- weed, and received dia-
mond tints from the chequering of the sun-beams;
the blue and pellucid element was such as Gala-
tea might have skimmed in her car of mother
of pearl ; or Cleopatra, more fitly than the Nile,
have chosen as the path of her magic ship.
Though it was winter, the atmosphere seemed

IV INTRODUCTION.

more appropriate to early spring; and its genial
warmth contributed to inspire those sensations
of placid delight, which are the portion of every
traveller, as he lingers, loath to quit the tran-
quil bays and radiant promontories of Baiae.

We visited the so called Elysian Fields and
Averaus ; and wandered through various ruined
temples, baths, and classic spots ; at length we
entered the gloomy cavern of the Cumaean Sibyl.
Our Lazzeroni bore flaring torches, which shone
red, and almost dusky, in the murky subterra-
nean passages, whose darkness thirstily surround-
ing them, seemed eager to imbibe more and more
of the element of light. We passed by a natural
archw^ay, leading to a second gallery, and
enquired, if we could not enter there also. The
guides pointed to the reflection of their torches
on the water that paved it, leaving us to form
our own conclusion ; but adding it was a pity,
for it led to the Sibyl's Cave. Our curiosity and
enthusiasm were excited by this circumstance,
and we insisted upon attempting the passage.
As is usually the case in the prosecution of such
enterprizes, the difficulties decreased on examina-
tion. We found, on each side of the humid
pathway, " dry land for the sole of the foot."

INTRODUCTION. V

At length we arrived at a large, desert, dark
cavern, which the Lazzeroni assured us was the
SibyFs Cave. We were sufficiently disappointed
— Yet we examined it with care, as if its blank,
rocky Malls could still bear trace of celestial visi-
tant. On one side was a small opening. Whi-
ther does this lead ? we asked : can we enter
here ? — *' Questo poi, no,"" — said the wild look-
ing savage, who held the torch ; " you can
advance but a short distance, and nobody visits
it."

" Nevertheless, I will try it," said my com-
panion ; " it may lead to the real cavern. Shall
I go alone, or will you accompany me ?""

I signified my readiness to proceed, but our
guides protested against such a measure. With
great volubility, in their native Neapolitan dia-
lect, with which we were not very familiar, they
told us that there were spectres, that the roof
would fall in, that it was too narrow to admit us,
that there was a deep hole within, filled with
water, and we might be drowned. My friend
shortened the harangue, by taking the man's
torch from him ; and we proceeded alone.

The passage, which at first scarcely admitted
us, quickly grew narrower and lower ; we were al-
a 3

Tl INTRODUCTION.

most bent double; yet still we persisted in making
our Avay through it. At length we entered a
wider space, and the low roof heightened ; but,
as we congratulated ourselves on this change,
our torch was extinguished by a current of air,
and we w^ere left in utter darkness. The guides
bring with them materials for renewing the light,
but we had none — our only resource was to re-
turn as we came. We groped round the widened
space to find the entrance, and after a time fan-
cied that we had succeeded. This proved
however to be a second passage, which evidently
ascended. It terminated like the former; though
something approaching to a ray, we could not
tell whence, shed a very doubtful twilight in the
space. By degrees, our eyes grew somewhat
accustomed to this dimness, and we perceived that
there was no direct passage leading us further ;
but that it was possible to climb one side of the
cavern to a low arch at top, which promised a
more easy path, from whence we now discovered
that this light proceeded. With considerable
difficulty we scrambled up, and came to another
passage with still more of illumination, and this
led to another ascent like the former.

After a succession of these, which our resolu-

INTRODUCnON. VU

tion alone permitted us to surmount, we arrived
at a wide cavern with an arched dome-hke roof.
An aperture in the midst let in the hght of
heaven ; but this was overgrown with brambles
and underwood, which acted as a veil, obscuring
the dav, and griving; a solemn relimous hue to
the apartment. It was spacious, and nearly
circular, with a raised seat of stone, about the
size of a Grecian couch, at one end. The only
sign that life had been here, was the perfect
snow-white skeleton of a goat, which had proba-
bly not perceived tlie opening as it grazed on
the hill above, and had fallen headlong. Ages
perhaps had elapsed since this catastrophe ; and
tlie ruin it had made above, had been repaired
by the growth of vegetation during many hun-
dred summers.

The rest of the furniture of the cavern con-
sisted of piles of leaves, fragments of bark, and
a white filmy substance, resembUng the inner part
of the green hood which shelters the grain of the
unripe Indian corn. "We were fatigued by our
struggles to attain this point, and seated our-
selves on the rocky couch, while the sounds of
tinkling sheep-bells, and shout of shepherd-boy,
reached us from above.

Vlll TXTRODUCTION.

At length my friend, who liad taken up some
of the leaves strewed about, exclaimed, " This
is the Sibyl's cave ; these are Sibylline leaves.**
On examination, we found that all the leaves,
bark, and other substances, were traced with
written characters. What appeared to us more
astonishing, was that these writmgs were ex-
pressed in various languages: some unknown
to my companion, ancient Chaldee, and Egyp-
tian hieroglyphics, old as the Pyramids.
Stranger still, some were in modern dialects,
Encrlish and Italian. We could make out little

o

by the dim light, but they seemed to contain
prophecies, detailed relations of events but lately
passed ; names, now well known, but of modern
date ; and often exclamations of exultation or
woe, of victory or defeat, were traced on their
thin scant pages. This was certainly the Sibyl's
Cave; not indeed exactly as Virgil describes it;
but the whole of this land had been so convulsed
by earthquake and volcano, that the change was
not wonderful, though the traces of ruin were
effaced by time ; and we probably owed the
preservation of these leaves, to the accident which
had closed the mouth of the cavern, and the
swift-growin^j vegetation which had rendered its

INTRODUCTION. IX

sole opening impervious to the storm. We made
a hasty selection of such of the leaves, whose
wTiting one at least of us could understand ; and
then, laden with our treasure, we bade adieu to
the dim hypaethric cavern, and after much diffi-
culty succeeded in rejoining our guides.

During our stay at Naples, we often returned
to this cave, sometimes alone, skimming the sun-
lit sea, and each time added to our store. Since
that period, whenever the world's circumstance
has not imperiously called me away, or the
temper of my mind impeded such study. I have
been employed in deciphering these sacred re-
mains. Their meaning, wondrous and elo-
quent, has often repaid my toil, soothing me in
sorrow, and exciting my imagination to daring
flights, through the immensity of nature and the
mind of man. For awhile my labours were not
solitary ; but that time is gone ; and, with the
selected and matchless companion of my toils,
their dearest reward is also lost to me —

Di mie tenere frondi altro lavoro
Credea mostrarte ; e qual fero pianeta
A'e' nvidio insieme, o raio nobil tesoro ?

I present the public with my latest discoveries

X INTRODUCTION.

in the slight Sibylline pages. Scattered and
unconnected as they were^ I have been obliged
to add Hnks, and model the work into a con-
sistent form. But the main substance rests on
the truths contained in these poetic rhapsodies,
and the divine intuition which the Cumaean
damsel obtained from heaven.

I have often wondered at the subject of her
verses, and at the English dress of the Latin
poet. Sometimes I have thought, that, obscure
and chaotic as they are, they owe their pre-
sent form to me, their decipherer. As if we
should give to another artist, the painted
fragments which form the mosaic copy of Ra-
phael's Transfiguration in St. Peter's ; he would
put them together in a form, whose mode would
be fashioned by his own peculiar mind and
talent. Doubtless the leaves of the Cumsean
Sibyl have suffered distortion and diminution of
interest and excellence in my hands. My only
excuse for thus transforming them, is that they
were unintelligible in their pristine condition.

My labours have cheered long hours of soli-
tude, and taken me out of a world, which has
averted its once benisjnant face from me, to one
glowing with imagination and power. Will

INTRODUCTION. XI

my readers ask how I could find solace from the
narration of misery and woeful change ? This
is one of the mysteries of our nature, which
holds full sway over me, and from whose influ-
ence I cannot escape. I confess, that I have not
been unmoved by the development of the tale ;
and that I have been depressed, nay, agonized,
at some parts of the recital, which I have faith-
fully transcribed from my materials. Yet such
is human nature, that the excitement of mind
was dear to me, and that the imagination, painter
of tempest and earthquake, or, worse, the stormy
and ruin-fraught passions of man, softened my
real sorrows and endless regrets, by clothing these
fictitious ones in that ideality, which takes the
mortal sting from pain.

I hardly know whether this apology is neces-
sary. For the merits of my adaptation and
translation must decide how far I have well be-
stowed my time and imperfect powers, in giving
form and substance to the frail and attenuated
Leaves of the Sibyl.

THE LAST MAN.

CHAPTER I.

I AM the native of a sea^surrounded nook, a
cloud-enshadowed land, which, when the surface
of the globe, with its shoreless ocean and trackless
continents, presents itself to my mind, appears
only as an inconsiderable speck in the immense
whole ; and yet, when balanced in the scale of
mental power, far outweighed countries of larger
extent and more numerous population. So true
it is, that man's mind alone was the creator of
all that was good or great to man, and that

VOL. I. B

2 THE LAST MAN.

Nature herself was only his first minister. Eng-
land, seated far north in the turbid sea, now
visits my dreams in the semblance of a vast and
well-manned ship, which mastered the winds and
rode proudly over the waves. In my boyish
days she was the universe to me. When I
stood on my native hills, and saw plain and
mountain stretch out to the utmost limits of my
vision, speckled by the dwellings of my country-
men, and subdued to fertility by their labours, the
earth''s very centre was fixed for me in that spot,
and the rest of her orb was as a fable, to have
forgotten which would have cost neither my
imagination nor understanding an effort.

My fortunes have been, from the beginning,
an exemplification of the power that mutability
may possess over the varied tenor of man's life.
With regard to myself, this came almost by
inheritance. My father was one of those men
on whom nature had bestowed to prodigality
the envied gifts of wit and imagination, and
then left his bark of life to be impelled by these

THE LAST MAN. 3

winds, without adding reason as the rudder, or
judgment as the pilot for the voyage. His ex-
traction was obscure ; but circumstances brought
him early into pubhc notice, and his small
paternal property was soon dissipated in the
splendid scene of fashion and luxury in which
he was an actor. During the short years
of thoughtless youth, he was adored by the
high-bred triflers of the day, nor least by the
youthful sovereign, who escaped from the in-
trigues of party, and the arduous duties of kingly
business, to find never-faihng amusement and
exliilaration of spirit in his society. ]\Iy father's
impulses, never under his own controul, per-
petually led him into difficulties from which his
ingenuity alone could extricate him ; and the
accumulating pile of debts of honour and of
trade, which would have bent to earth any
other, was supported by him with a hght spirit
and tameless hilarity ; while his company was
so necessary at the tables and assemblies of the
rich, that his derehctions were considered ve-
b2

4 THE LAST MAN.

nial, and he himself received wiih intoxicating
flattery.

This kind of popularity, like every other, is
evanescent : and the difficulties of every kind
with which he had to contend, increased in a
frightful ratio compared with his small means
of extricating himself. At such times the king,
in his enthusiasm for him, would come to his
relief, and then kindly take his friend to task ;
my father gave the best promises for amend-
ment, but his social disposition, his craving for
the usual diet of admiration, and more than all,
the fiend of gambling, which fully possessed
him, made his good resolutions transient, his
promises vain. With the quick sensibihty
peculiar to his temperament, he perceived his
power in the brilliant circle to be on the wane.
The king married; and the haughty princess
of Austria, who became, as queen of England,
the head of fashion, looked with harsh eyes on
his defects, and with contempt on the affection
her royal husband entertained for him. My

THE LAST MAN. 5

father felt that his fall was near; but so far
from profiting by this last calm before the
storm to save himself, he sought to forget anti-
cipated evil by making still greater sacrifices to
the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter
of his destiny.

The king, who was a man of excellent dis-
positions, but easily led, had now become a
willing disciple of his imperious consort. He
was induced to look with extreme disapproba-
tion, and at last with distaste, on my father's
imprudence and follies. It is true that his pre-
sence dissipated these clouds ; his warm-hearted
frankness, brilliant sallies, and confiding de-
meanour were irresistible : it was only when at a
distance, while still renewed tales of his errors
were poured into his royal friend's ear, that- he
lost his influence. The queen's dextrous manage-
ment was employed to prolong these absences,
and gather together accusations. At length the
king was brought to see in him a source of per-
petual disquiet, knowing that he should pay for

6 THE LAST MAN.

the short-lived pleasure of his society by tedious
homilies, and more painful narrations of excesses,
the truth of which he could not disprove. The
result was, that he would make one more attempt
to reclaim him, and in case of ill success, cast
him off for ever.

Such a scene must have been one of deepest
interest and high-wrought passion. A powerful
king, conspicuous for a goodness which had
heretofore made him meek, and now lofty in
his admonitions, with alternate entreaty and
reproof, besought his friend to attend to his real
interests, resolutely to avoid those fascinations
which in fact were fast deserting him, and to
spend his great powers on a worthy field, in
which hCj his sovereign, would be his prop, his
stay, and his pioneer. My father felt this kind-
ness ; for a moment ambitious dreams floated
before him ; and he thought that it would be
well to exchange his present pursuits for nobler
duties. With sincerity and fervour he gave the
required promise : as a pledge of continued fa-

THE LAST MAN. 7

vour, he received from his royal master a sum
of money to defray pressing debts, and enable
him to enter under good auspices his new ca-
reer. That very night, while yet full of grati-
tude and good resolves, this whole sum, and its
amount doubled, was lost at the gaming-table.
In his desire to repair his first losses, my father
risked double stakes, and thus incurred a debt of
honour he was wholly unable to pay. Ashamed
to apply again to the king, he turned his back
upon London, its false delights and clinging
miseries; and, with poverty for his sole com-
panion, buried himself in solitude among the
liills and lakes of Cumberland. His wit, his
bon mots, the record of his personal attractions,
fascinating manners, and social talents, were
long remembered and repeated from mouth to
mouth. Ask where now was this favourite of
fashion, this companion of the noble, this ex-
celling beam, which gilt with alien splendour
the assemblies of the courtly and the gay — you
heard that he was under a cloud, a lost man ;

8 THE LAST MATT.

not one thought it belonged to him to repay
pleasure by real services, or that his long reign
of brilHant wit deserved a pension on retiring.
The king lamented his absence; he loved to
repeat his sayings, relate the adventures they
had had together, and exalt his talents — but
here ended his reminiscence.

Meanwhile my father, forgotten, could not
forget. He repined for the loss of what was
more necessary to him than air or food — the
excitements of pleasure, the admiration of the
noble, the luxurious and polished living of the
great. A nervous fever was the consequence;
during which he was nursed by the daughter of
a poor cottager, under whose roof he lodged.
She was lovely, gentle, and, above all, kind to
him ; nor can it afford astonishment, that the late
idol of high-bred beauty should, even in a fallen
state, appear a being of an elevated and won-
drous nature to the lowly cottage-girl. The
attachment between them led to the ill-fated
marriage, of which I was the offspring.

THE LAST MAN. 9

Not with standino: the tenderness and sweetness
«f my mother, her husband still deplored his
degraded state. Unaccustomed to industry, he
knew not in what way to contribute to the sup-
port of his increasing family. Sometimes he
thought of applying to the king; pride and
shame for a while withheld him ; and, before
his necessities became so imperious as to compel
him to some kind of exertion, he died. For
one brief interval before this catastrophe, he
looked forward to the future, and contemplated
with anguish the desolate situation in which his
wife and children would be left. His last effort
was a letter to the king, full of touching elo-
quence, and of occasional flashes of that brilliant
spirit which was an integral part of him. He
bequeathed his widow and orphans to the friend-
ship of his royal master, and felt satisfied that,
by this means, their prosperity was better assured
in his death than in his life. This letter was en-
closed to the care of a nobleman, who, he did not
b3

10 THE LAST MAN.

doubt, would perform the last and inexpensive
office of placing it in the king's o^vn hand.

He died in debt, and his little property was
seized immediately by his creditors. My mo-
ther, pennyless and burthened with two children,
waited week after week, and month after month,
in sickening expectation of a reply, which never
came. She had no experience beyond her fa-
ther's cottage ; and the mansion of the lord of
the manor was the chiefest type of grandeur she
could conceive. During my father's life, she had
been made familiar with the name of royalty
and the courtly circle ; but such things, ill ac-
cording with her personal experience, appeared,
after the loss of him who gave substance and
reality to them, vague and fantastical. If,
under any circumstances, she could have ac-
quired sufficient courage to address the noble
persons mentioned by her husband, the ill suc-
cess of his own application caused her to banish
the idea. She saw therefore no escape from

THE LAST MAN. 11

dire penury: perpetual care, joined to sorrow
for the loss of the wondrous being, whom she
continued to contemplate with ardent admira-
tion, hard labour, and naturally delicate health,
at length released her from the sad continuity of
want and misery.

The condition of her orphan children was
peculiarly desolate. Her own father had been
an emigrant from another part of the country,
and had died long since : they had no one rela-
tion to take them by the hand ; they were out-
casts, paupers, unfriended beings, to whom the
most scanty pittance was a matter of favour, and
who were treated merely ^s children of peasants,
yet poorer than the poorest, who, dying, had
left them, a thankless bequest, to the close-
handed charity of the land.

I, the elder of the two, was five years old
when my mother died. A remembrance of the
discourses of my parents, and die communica-
tions which my mother endeavoured to impress
upon me concerning my father's friends, in slight

12 THE LAST MAN.

hope that I might one day derive benefit from
the knowledge, floated hke an indistinct dream
through my brain. I conceived that I was dif-
ferent and superior to my protectors and com-
panions, but I knew not how or wherefore. The
sense of injury, associated with the name of king
and noble, clung to me ; but I could draw no
conclusions from such feelings, to serve as a
guide to action. My first real knowledge of
myself was as an unprotected orphan among
the valleys and fells of Cumberland. I was in
the service of a farmer; and with crook in hand,
my dog at my side, I shepherded a numerous
flock on the near uplands. I cannot say much
in praise of such a life ; and its pains far ex-
ceeded its pleasures. There was freedom in it,
a companionship with nature, and a reckless
loneliness; but these, romantic as they were,
did not accord with the love of action and desire
of human sympathy, characteristic of youth.
Neither the care of my flock, nor the change of
seasons, were sufficient to tame my eager spirit ;

THE LAST MAN. 13

my out-door life and unemployed time were the
temptations that led me early into lawless habits.
I associated with others friendless like myself;
I formed them into a band, I was their chief
and captain. All shepherd-boys alike, while
our flocks were spread over the pastures, we
schemed and executed many a mischievous
prank, which drew on us the anger and re-
.venge of the rustics. I was the leader and pro-
tector of my comrades, and as I became dis-
tinguished among them, their misdeeds were
usually visited upon me. But while I endured
punishment and pain in their defence with the
spirit of an hero, I claimed as my reward their
praise and obedience.

In such a school my disposition became rug-
ged, but firm. The appetite for admiration and
small capacity for self-con troul which I in-
herited from my father, nursed by adversity,
made me daring and reckless. I was rough as
the elements, and unlearned as the animals I
tended. I often compared myself to them, and

14 THE LAST MAN.

finding that my chief superiority consisted in
power, I soon persuaded myself that it was in
power only that I was inferior to the chiefest
potentates of the earth. Thus untaught in re-
fined philosophy, and pursued by a restless
feeling of degradation from my true station in
society, I wandered among the hills of civilized
England as uncouth a savage as the wolf-bred
founder of old Rome. I owned but one law, it
was that of the strongest, and my greatest deed
of virtue was never to submit.

Yet let me a little retract from this sentence
I have passed on myself. My mother, when
dying, had, in addition to her other half-for-
gotten and misapplied lessons, committed, with
solemn exhortation, her other child to my fra-
ternal guardianship ; and this one duty I per-
formed to the best of my ability, with all the
zeal and affection of which mj nature was ca-
pable. My sister was three years younger than
myself; I had nursed her as an infant, and
w^hen the difference of our sexes, by giving us

THE LAST MAN. 15

various occupations, in a ^reat measure divided
uSj yet she continued to be the object of my
careful love. Orphans, in the fullest sense of
the term, we were poorest among the poor, and
despised among the unhonoured. If my daring
and courage obtained for me a kind of respect-
ful aversion, her youth and sex, since they did
not excite tenderness, by proving her to be
weak, were the causes of numberless mortifica-
tions to her ; and her o^vn disposition was not
so constituted as to diminish the evil eiFects of
her lowly station.

She was a singular being, and, like me, in-
herited much of the peculiar disposition of our
father. Her countenance was all expression;
her eyes were not dark, but impenetrably deep ;
you seemed to discover space after space in
their intellectual glance, and to feel that the
soul which was their soul, comprehended an
universe of thought in its ken. She was pale
and fair, and her golden hair clustered on her
temples, contrasting its rich hue with the living

16 THE LAST MAN.

marble beneath, Her coarse peasant dress,
little consonant apparently with the refinement
of feeling which her face expressed, yet in a
strange manner accorded with it. She was like
one of Guido's saints, with heaven in her heart
and in her look, so that when you saw her you
only thought of that within, and costume and
even feature were secondary to the mind that
beamed in her countenance.

Yet though lovely and full of noble feeling,
my poor Perdita (for this was the fanciful name
my sister had received from her dying parent),
was not altogether saintly in her disposition.
Her manners were cold and repulsive. If she
had been nurtured by those who had regarded
her with afiection, she might have been dif-
ferent; but unloved and neglected, she repaid
w^ant of kindness with distrust and silence. She
was submissive to those who held authority over
her, but a perpetual cloud dwelt on her brow ;
she looked as if she expected enmity from every
one who approached her, and her actions were

THE LAST MAN. 17

instigated by the same feeling. All the time
she could command she spent in sohtude. She
would ramble to the most unfrequentd places,
and scale dangerous heights, that in those un-
visited spots she might wrap herself in loneh-
ness. Often she passed whole hours walking
up and down the paths of the woods ; she wove
garlands of flowers and ivy- or watched the
•flickering of the shadows and glancing of the
leaves ; sometimes she sat beside a stream, and
as her thoughts paused, threw flowers or peb-
bles into the waters, watching how those swam
and these sank ; or she would set afloat boats
formed of bark of trees or leaves, with a feather
for a sail, and intensely watch the navigation of
her craft among the rapids and shallows of the
brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a
thousand combinations ; she dreamt " of moving
accidents by flood and field" — she lost herself
delightedly in these self-created wanderings, and
returned with unwilling spirit to the dull detail
of common life.

18 THE LAST MAN.

Poverty was the cloud that veiled her excel-
lencies, and all that was good in her seemed
about to perish from want of the genial dew of
aflPection. She had not even the same advan-
tage as I in the recollection of her parents ; she
clung to me, her brother, as her only friend,
but her alliance with me completed the distaste
that her protectors felt for her ; and every error
was magnified by them into crimes. If she had
been bred in that sphere of life to which by in-
heritance the delicate framework of her mind
and person was adapted, she would have been
tlie object almost of adoration, for her virtues
were as eminent as her defects. All the genius
that ennobled the blood of her father illustrated
hers ; a generous tide flowed in her veins ; ar-
tifice, envy, or meanness, were at the antipodes
of her nature ; her countenance, when enlight-
ened by amiable feeling, might have belonged
to a queen of nations ; her eyes were bright ; her
look fearless.

Although by our situation and dispositions

THE LAST MAN. 19

we were almost equally cut off from the usual
forms of social intercourse, we formed a strong
contrast to each other. I always required the
stimulants of companionship and applause. Per-
dita was all-sufficient to herself. Notwithstand-
ing my lawless habits, my disposition was socia-
ble, hers recluse. My life was spent among
tangible reahties, hers was a dream. I might
be said even to love my enemies, since by ex-
citing me they in a sort bestowed happiness
upon me ; Perdita almost disliked her friends,
for they interfered with her visionary moods.
All my feelings, even of exultation and triumph,
were changed to bitterness, if unparticipated ;
Perdita, even in joy, fled to loneliness, and
could go on from day to day, neither expressing
her emotions, nor seeking a fellow-feeling in
another mind. Nay, she could love and dwell
with tenderness on the look and voice of her
friend, while her demeanour expressed the
coldest reserv^e. A sensation with her became a
sentiment, and she never spoke until she had

»U THE LAST MAN.

mingled her perceptions of outward objects with
others which were the native growth of her own
mind. She was Hke a fruitful soil that imbibed
the airs and dews of heaven, and gave them
forth again to light in loveliest forms of fruits
and flowers ; but then she was often dark and
rugged as that soil, raked up, and new sown
with unseen seed.

She dwelt in a cottage whose trim grass-plat
sloped down to the waters of the lake of Uls-
water ; a beech wood stretched up the hill be-
hind, and a purling brook gently falling from
the acclivity ran through poplar-shaded banks
into the lake. I Hved with a farmer whose
house was built higher up among the hills : a
dark crag rose behind it, and, exposed to the
north, the snow lay in its crevices the summer
through. Before dawn I led my flock to the
sheep-walks, and guarded them through the
day. It was a life of toil; for rain and cold
were more frequent than sunshine ; but it was
my pride to contemn the elements. My trusty

THE LAST MAN. SI

dog watched the sheep as I shpped away to the
rendezvous of mv comrades, and thence to the
accomplishment of our schemes. At noon we
met again, and we threw away in contempt our
peasant fare, as we built our fire-place and
kindled the cheering blaze destined to cook the
game stolen from the neighbouring preserves.
Then came the tale of hair-breadth escapes,
combats with dogs, ambush and flight, as
gipsey-like we encompassed our pot. The
search after a stray lamb, or the devices by
which we elude or endeavoured to elude punish-
ment, filled up the hours of afternoon ; in the
evening my flock went to its fold, and I to my
sister.

It was seldom indeed that we escaped, to use
an old-fashioned phrase, scot free. Our dainty
fare was often exchanged for blows and impri-
sonment. Once, when thirteen years of age, I
was sent for a month to the county jail. I
came out, my morals unimproved, my hatred to
my oppressors encreascd tenfold. Bread and

22 THE LAST MAN.

water did not tame my blood, nor solitary
confinement inspire me with gentle thoughts.
I was angry, impatient, miserable ; my only
happy hours were those during which I devised
schemes of revenge ; these were perfected in my
forced solitude, so that during the whole of the
following season, and I was freed early in Sep-
tember, I never failed to provide excellent and
plenteous fare for myself and my comrades.
This was a glorious winter. The sharp frost
and heavy snows tamed the animals, and kept
the country gentlemen by their firesides; we
got more game than we could eat, and my faith-
ful dog grew sleek upon our refuse.

Thus years passed on ; and years only added
fresh love of freedom, and contempt for all that
was not as wild and rude as myself. At the
age of sixteen I had shot up in appearance to
man's estate ; I was tall and athletic ; I was
practised to feats of strength, and inured to the
inclemency of the elements. My skin was em-
browned by the sun ; my step was firm with

THE LAST MAN. ^

conscious power. I feared no man, and loved
none. In after life I looked back with wonder
to what I then was; how utterly worthless I
should have become if I had pursued my law-
less career. My life was like that of an animal,
and my mind was in danger of degenerating
into that which informs brute nature. Un-
til now, my savage habits had done me no
radical miscliief ; my physical powers had grown
up and flourished under their influence, and my
mind, undergoing the same disciphne, was im-
bued with all the hardy virtues. But now
my boasted independence was daily instigating
me to acts of tyranny, and freedom was be-
coming licentiousness. I stood on the brink of
manhood; passions, strong as the trees of a fo-
rest, had already taken root within me, and
were about to shadow with their noxious over-
growth, my path of life.

I panted for enterprises beyond my childish
exploits, and formed distempered dreams of fu-
ture action. I avoided my ancient comrades.

S4 THE LAST MAN.

and I soon lost them. They arrived at the age
when they were sent to fulfil their destined
situations in life ; while I, an outcast, with
none to lead or drive me forward, paused. The
old began to point at me as an example,
the young to wonder at me as a being distinct
from themselves ; I hated them, and began,
last and worst degradation, to hate myself. I
clung to my ferocious habits, yet half despised
them ; I continued my war against civilization,
and yet entertained a wish to belong to it.

I revolved again and again all that I remem-
bered my mother to have told me of my father's
former life ; I contemplated the few relics I
possessed belonging to him, which spoke of
greater refinement than could be found among
the mountain cottages ; but nothing in all this
served as a guide to lead me to another and
pleasanter way of life. My father had been
connected with nobles, but all I knew of such
connection was subsequent neglect. The name
of the king,~he to whom my dying father had

THE LAST MAN. 25

addressed his latest prayers, and who had bar-
barously slighted them, was associated only
with the ideas of unkindness, injustice, and
consequent resentment. I was born for some-
thing greater than I was — and greater I would
become; but greatness, at least to my distorted
perceptions, was no necessary associate of good-
ness, and my wild thoughts were unchecked by
moral considerations when they rioted in dreams
of distinction. Thus I stood upon a pinnacle,
a sea of evil rolled at my feet ; I was about to
precipitate myself into it, and rush like a tor-
rent over all obstructions to the object of my
wishes — when a stranger influence came over
the current of my fortunes, and changed, their
boisterous course to what was in comparison
like the gentle meanderings of a meadow-en-
circling streamlet.

VOL. I.

26 THE LAST MAN.

CHAPTER IL

I LIVED far from the busy haunts of meir^
and the rumour of wars or political changes came
worn to a mere sound, to our mountain abodes.
England had been the scene of momentou.s
struggles, during my early boyhood. In the
year 2073, the last of its kings, the ancient
friend of my father, had abdicated in com-
pliance with the gentle force of the remon-
strances of his subjects, and a republic was in-
stituted. Large estates were secured to the
dethroned monarch and his family ; he received
the- title of Earl of Windsor, and Windsor
Castle, an ancient royalty, with its wide de-
mesnes were a part of his allotted weakh. He

THE LAST MAN. 27

died soon after, leaving two children, a son
and a daughter.

The ex-queen, a princess of the house of
Austria, had long impelled her husband to
withstand the necessity of the times. She was
haughty and fearless ; she cherished a love of
power, and a bitter contempt for him who had
despoiled himself of a kingdom. For her chil-
di-en's sake alone she consented to remain,
shorn of regality, a member of the English
republic. When she became a widow, she
turned all her thoughts to the educating her son
Adrian, second Earl of Windsor, so as to accom-
plish her ambitious ends ; and with his mother's
milk he imbibed, and was intended to grow up
in the steady purpose of re-acquiring his lost
crown. Adrian was now fifteen years of age.
He was addicted to study, and imbued beyond
his years w4th learning and talent : report said
that he had already begun to thwart his mother's
views, and to entertain republican principles.
However this might be, the haughty Countess
c 2

S8 THE LAST MAN.

entrusted none with the secrets of her family-
tuition. Adrian was bred up in soHtude, and
kept apart from the natural companions of his
age and rank. Some unknown circumstance
now induced his mother to send him from under
her immediate tutelao;e ; and we heard that he
was about to visit Cumberland. A thousand
tales were rife, explanatory of the Countess of
Windsor's conduct ; none true probably ; but
each day it became more certain that we should
have the noble scion of the late regal house of
England among us.

There was a large estate with a mansion at-
tached to it, belonging to this family, at Uls-
v,'ater. A large park was one of its appendages,
laid out with great taste, and plentifully stocked
witli game. I had often made depredations on
these preserves ; and the neglected state of the
property facilitated my incursions. When it
was decided that the young Earl of Windsor
should visit Cumberland, workmen arrived to
put the house and grounds in order for his re-

THE LAST MAK. 29

ceptlon. The apartments were restored to their
pristine splendour, and the park, all disrepairs
restored, was guarded with unusual care.

I was beyond measure disturbed by this in-
telligence. It roused all my dormant recollec-
tions, my suspended sentiments of injury, and
gave rise to the new one of revenge. I could
no longer attend to my occupations; all my
plans and devices were forgotten ; I seemed
about to begin life anew, and that under no
good auspices. The tug of war, I thought,
was now to begin. He would come triumph-
antly to the district to which my parent had
fled broken-hearted ; he would find the ill-
fated offspring, bequeathed with such vain con-
fidence to his royal father, miserable paupers.
That he should know of our existence, and
treat us, near at hand, with the same contumely
which his father had practised in distance and
absence, appeared to me the certain consequence
of all that had gone before. Thus then I
should meet this titled stripling — the son of

30 THE LAST MAN.

my father's friend. He would be hedged iii
by servants; nobles, and the sons of nobles,
were his companions; all England rang with
his name ; and his coming, like a thunderstorm,
was heard from far : while I, unlettered and
unfashioned, should, if I came in contact with
him, in the judgment of his courtly followers,
bear evidence in my very person to the propriety
of that ingratitude which had made me the de-
graded being I appeared.

With my mind fully occupied by these ideas,
I might be said as if fascinated, to haunt the
destined abode of the young Earl. I watched
the progress of the improvements, and stood by
the unlading waggons, as various articles of
luxury, brought from London, were taken
forth and conveyed into the mansion. It was
part of the Ex-Queen's plan, to surround her
son with princely magnificence. I beheld rich
carpets and silken hangings, ornaments of gold,
richly embossed metals, emblazoned furniture,
and all the appendages of high rank arranged^

THE LAST 3IAX. 31

SO that nothing but what was regal in splen-
dour should reach the eye of one of royal
descent. I looked on these ; I turned my gaze
to my own mean dress. — Whence sprung this
difference ? Whence but from ingratitude,
from falsehood, from a dereliction on the part
of the prince's father, of all noble sympathy and
generous feeling. Doubtless, he also, whose
blood received a mingling tide from his proud
mother — he, the acknowledged focus of the
kingdom's wealth and nobility, had been taught
to repeat my father's name with disdain, and to
scoff at my just claims to protection. I strove
to think that all this grandeur was but more
glaring infamy, and that, by planting his gold-
en woven flag beside my tarnished and tattered
banner, he proclaimed not his superiority, but
his debasement. Yet I envied him. His stud
of beautiful horses, his arms of costly workman-
ship, the praise that attended him, the adoration,
ready servitor, higfi place and high esteem, — I
considered them as forcibly wrenched from me.

32 THi: LAST MAX.

and envied them all with novel and tormenting
bitterness.

To crown my vexation of spirit, Perdita, the
visionary Perdita, seemed to awake to real life
with transport, when she told me that the Earl
of Windsor w^as about to arrive.

" And this pleases you.'^" I observed,
moodily.

" Indeed it does, Lionel," she replied ; "I
quite long to see him ; he is the descendant of
our kings, the first noble of the land: every
one admires and loves him, and they say that
his rank is his least merit ; he is generous,
brave, and affable."

" You have learnt a pretty lesson, Perdita,"
said I, " and repeat it so literally, that you
forget the while the proofs we have of the EarFs
virtues ; his generosity to us is manifest in our
plenty, his bravery in the protection he affords
us, his affability in the notice he takes of us.
His rank liis least merit, do you say ? Why,
all his virtues are derived from his station only ;

THE LAST MAX. 33

Ijecause he is rich, he is called generous ; be-
cause he is powerful, brave; because he is well
served, he is affable. Let them call him so,
let all England believe him to be thus— we
know him — he is our enemy — our penurious,
dastardly, arrogant enemy; if he were gifted
with one particle of the virtues you call his,
he would do justly by us, if it were only to
shew, that if he must strike, it should not be a
fallen foe. His father injured my father — his
father, unassailable on his throne, dared de-
spise him who only stooped beneath himself,
when he deigned to associate witli the royal
ingrate. We, descendants from the one and
the other, must be enemies also. He shall find
that I can feel my injuries ; he shall learn to
dread my revenge !''

A few days after he arrived. Every inha-
bitant of the most miserable cottage, went to
swell the stream of population that poured
forth to meet him : even Perdita, in spite of my
late philippic, crept near the highway, to behold
c3

S4 THE LAST MAK.

this idol of all hearts. I, driven half mad, as
I met party after party of the country people, in
their holiday best, descending the hills, escaped
to their cloud-veiled summits, and looking on
the sterile rocks about me, exclaimed—" They
do not cry, long live the Earl !" Nor, when
night came, accompanied by drizzling rain and
cold, would I return home ; for I knew that
each cottage rang with the praises of Adrian ;
as I felt my limbs grow numb and chill, my
pain served as food for my insane aversion ;
nay, I almost triumphed in it, since it seemed
to afford me reason and excuse for my hatred
of my unheeding adversary. All was attributed
to him, for I confounded so entirely the idea of
father and son, that I forgot that the latter
might be wholly unconscious of his parent's ne-
glect of us ; and as I struck my aching head with
my hand, I cried : "^ He shall hear of this ! I
Avill be revenged ! I will not suffer like a
spaniel ! He shall know, beggar and friendless as
I am, that I will not tamely submit to injury !"

THE LAST MAN. 35

Each day, each hour added to these exagge-
rated wrongs. His praises were so many adders
stings infixed in my vulnerable breast. If I
saw him at a distance, riding a beautiful horse,
my blood boiled with rage; the air seemed
poisoned by his presence, and my very native
EngUsh was changed to a vile jargon, since every
phrase I heard was coupled with liis name and
"honour. I panted to relieve this painful heart-
burning by some misdeed that should rouse him
to a sense of my antipathy. It was the heigh i
of his offending, that he should occasion in me
such intolerable sensations, and not deign him-
self to afford any demonstration that he was
aware that I even hved to feel them.

It soon became known that Adrian took great
delight in his park and preserves. He never
sported, but spent hours in watching the tribes
of lovely and ahnost tame animals with which
it was stocked, and ordered that greater care
should be taken of them than ever. Here was
an opening for my plans of offence, and I made

36 THE LAST MAN.

use of it with all the brute impetuosity I derived
from my active mode of life. I proposed the
enterprize of poaching on his demesne to my
few remaining comrades, who were the most de-
termined and lawless of the crew ; but they all
shrunk from the peril ; so I was left to achieve
my revenge myself. At first my exploits were
unperceived; I increased in daring; footsteps
on the dewy grass, torn boughs, and marks of
slaughter, at length betrayed me to the game-
keepers. They kept better watch ; I was taken,
and sent to prison. I entered its gloomy walls
in a fit of triumphant extasy : " He feels me
now,"' I died, '' and shall, again and again !"
— I passed but one day in confinement ; in the
evening I was Hberated, as I was told, by the or-
der of the Earl himself. This news precipitated
me from my self-raised pinnacle of honour. He
despises me, I thought ; but he shall learn that I
despise him, and hold in equal contempt his
punishments and his clemency. On the second
uight after my release, I was again taken by

THE LAST MAN. 37

the gamekeepers — again imprisoned ^ and again
released; and again, such was my pertinacity,
did the fourch night find mo in the forbidden
park. The gamekeepers were more enraged
than their lord by my obstinacy. They had re-
ceived orders that if 1 were again taken, I should
be brought to the Earl ; and his lenity made
them expect a conclusion which they considered
ill befitting my crime. One of them, who had
been from the first the leader among those who
had seized me, resolved to satisfy his own
resentment, before he made me over to the
higher powers.

The late setting of the moon, and the extreme
caution I was obhged to use in this my third
expedition, consumed so much time, that some-
thing like a qualm of fear came over me when
I perceived dark night yield to twilight. I
crept along by the fern, on my hands and
knees, seeking the shadowy coverts of the un-
derwood, while the birds awoke with unwelcome
song above, and the fresh morning wind, play-

CJ» THE LAST MA>f.

ing among the boughs, made me suspect a foot-
fall at each turn. My heart beat quick as I
approached the palings ; my hand was on one of
them, a leap would take me to the other side,
when two keepers sprang from an ambush upon
me: one knocked me down, and proceeded to
inflict a severe horse- whipping. I started up —
a knife was in my grasp ; I made a plunge at
his raised right arm, and inflicted a deep, wide
wound in his hand. The rage and yells of the
wounded man, the howling execrations of his
comrade, which I answered with equal bitter-
ness and fury, echoed through the dell ; morn-
ing broke more and more, ill accordant in its
celestial beauty with our brute and noisy contest.
I and my enemy were still struggling, when the
wounded man exclaimed, " The Earl !" I sprang
out of the herculean hold of the keeper, panting
from my exertions ; I cast furious glances on my
persecutors, and placing myself with my back to
a tree, resolved to defend myself to the last.
My garments were torn, and they, as well as

THE LAST MAN. 39

my hands, were stained with the blood of the
man I had wounded; one hand grasped the
dead birds — my hard-earned prey, the other
held the knife; my hair was matted; my face
besmeared with the same guilty signs that bore
witness against me on the dripping instrument
I clenched ; my whole appearance was haggard
and squalid. Tall and muscular as I was in
form, I must have looked like, what indeed
I was, the merest ruffian that ever trod the
earth.

The name of the Earl startled me, and caused
all the indignant blood that warmed my heart to
rush into my cheeks ; I had never seen him be-
fore; I figured to myself a haughty, assum-
ing youth, who would take me to task, if he
deigned to speak to me, with all the arrogance
of superiority. My reply was ready ; a reproach
I deemed calculated to sting his very heart. He
came up the while ; and his appearance blew
aside, with gentle western breath, my cloudy
wrath : a tall, slim, fair boy, with a physiognomy

40 THE LAST MAX.

expressive of the excess of sensibility and refine-
ment stood before me; the raornino: sunbeams
tinged with gold his silken hair, and spread hght
and glory over his beaming countenance. " How
is this ?'''' he cried. The men eao:erly becjan their
defence ; he put them aside, saying, " Two of you
at once on a mere lad — for shame !*" He came up
to me : "• Verne}^,'" he cried, " Lionel Verney,
do we meet thus for the first time ? We were
born to be friends to each other ; and though
ill fortune has divided us, will you not acknow-
ledge the hereditary bond of friendship which I
trust will hereafter unite us .^"

As he spoke, his earnest eyes, fixed on me,
seemed to read my very soul: my heart, my
savage revengeful heart, felt the influence of
sweet benignity sink upon it ; while his thrilling
voice, like sweetest melody, awoke a mute echo
within me, stirring to its depths the life-blood
in my frame. I desired to reply, to acknowledge
his goodness, accept his proffered friendship;
but words, fitting words, were not afforded to

THE LAST MAy. 4rl

the rough mountaineer ; I would have held out
my hand, but its guilty stain restrained me.
Adrian took pity on my faltering mien : " Come
with me,"' he said, " I have much to say to you;
come home with me — you know who T am ?"

" Yes," I exclaimed, " I do believe that I
now know you, and that you will pardon my
mistakes — my crime.*"

Adrian smiled gently; and after giving his
orders to the gamekeepers, he came up to me ;
putting his arm in mine, we walked together to
the mansion.

It was not his rank — after all that I have
said, surely it will not be suspected that it was
Adrian's rank, that, from the first, subdued my
heart of hearts, and laid my entire spirit pro-
strate before him. Nor was it I alone who felt
thus intimately his perfections . his sensibility
and courtesy fascinated every one. His vivacity,
intelligence, and active spirit of benevolence,
completed the conquest. Even at this early age,
he was deep read and imbued with the spirit of

42 THE LAST MAN

high philosophy. This spirit gave a tone of
irresistible persuasion to his intercourse with
others, so that he seemed like an inspired mu-
sician, who struck, with unerring skill, the " lyre
of mind," and produced thence divine harmony.
In person, he hardly appeared of this world;
his slight frame was overinformed by the sou),
that dwelt within ; he was all mind ; " Man but
a rush against" his breast, and it would have
conquered his strength ; but the might of his
smile would have tamed an hungry lion, or
caused a legion of armed men to lay their wea-
pons at his feet.

I spent the day with him. At first he did not
recur to the past, or indeed to any personal oc-
currences. He wished probably to inspire me
with confidence, and give me time to gather to-
gether my scattered thoughts. He talked of
general subjects, and gave me ideas I had never
before conceived. We sat in his library, and he
spoke of the old Greek sages, and of the power
which they had acquired over the m.inds of men,

THE LAST MAX. 43

through the force of love and wisdom only.
The room was decorated with the busts of many
of them, and he described their characters to
me. As he spoke, I felt subject to him ; and
all my boasted pride and strength were subdued
by the honeyed accents of this blue-eyed boy.
The trim and paled demesne of civilization,
which I had before regarded from my wild
jungle as inaccessible, had its wicket opened
by him ; I stepped within, and felt, as I entered,
that I trod my native soil.

As evening came on, he reverted to the past.
" I have a tale to relate," he said, '* and much
explanation to give concerning the past ; perhaps
you can assist me to curtail it. Do you remem-
ber your father ? I had never the happiness of
seeing him, but liis name is one of my earliest
recollections : he stands written in my mind's ta-
blets as the type of all that was gallant, amiable,
and fascinating in man. His wit was not more
conspicuous than the overflowing goodness of
his heart, which he poured in such full measure

44 THE LAST MAN.

on his friends, as to leave, alas I small remnant
for himself.""

Encouraged by this encomium, I proceeded,
in answer to his inquiries, to relate what I re-
membered of my parent ; and he gave an account
of those circumstances which had brought about
a neglect of my fathers testamentary letter.
When, in after times, Adrian's father, then king
of England, felt his situation become more peril-
ous, his line of conduct more embarrassed, again
and again he wished for his early friend, who
might stand a mound against the impetuous
anger of his queen, a mediator between him and
the parhament. From the time that he had
quitted London, on the fatal night of his defeat
at the gaming-table, the king had received no
tidings concerning him ; and when, after the lapse
of years, he exerted himself to discover him, every
trace was lost. With fonder regret than ever,
he clung to his memory ; and gave it in charge
to his son, if ever he should meet this valued
friend, in his name to bestow every succour, and

THE LAST MAX. 45

to assure him that, to the last, his attachment
survived separation and silence.

A short time before Adrian's visit to Cum-
berland, the heir of the nobleman to whom my
father had confided his last appeal to his royal
master, put this letter, its seal unbroken, into
the young Earl's hands. It had been found cast
aside with a mass of papers of old date, and
accident alone brouo^ht It to lio^ht. Adrian read
it with deep interest ; and found there that
living spirit of genius and wit he had so often
lieard commemorated. He discovered the name
of the spot whither my father had retreated, and
where he died ; he learnt the existence of his
orphan children ; and during the short interv'al
between his arrival at Ulswater and our meeting;
in the park, he had been occupied in making
inquiries concerning us, and arranging a varietv
of plans for our benefit, preliminary to his intro-
ducing himself to our notice.

The mode in which he spoke of my father
was gratifying to my vanity; the veil which

46 THE LAST MAN.

he delicately cast over his benevolence, in alledg-
ing a duteous fulfilment of the king's latest will,
was soothing to my pride. Other feelings, less
ambiguous, were called into play by his conciliat-
ing manner and the generous warmth of his ex-
pressions, respect rarely before experienced, admi-
ration, and love — ^he had touched my rocky heart
with his magic power, and the stream of aifection
gushed forth, imperishable and pure. In the
evening we parted ; he pressed my hand : " We
shall meet again ; come to me to-morrow." I
clasped that kind hand ; I tried to answer ; a
fervent " God bless you !" was all my ignorance
could frame of speech, and I darted away, op-
pressed by my new emotions.

I could not rest. I sought the hills; a
west wind swept them, and the stars glittered
above. I ran on, careless of outward objects,
but trying to master the struggling spirit within
me by means of bodily fatigue. " This," I
thought, " is power ! Not to be strong of limb,
hard of heart, ferocious, and daring ; but kind,

THE LAST MAN. 47

compassionate and soft." — Stopping short, I
clasped my hands, and with the fervour of a
new proselyte, cried, " Doubt me not, Adrian,
I also will become \nse and good!"" and then
quite overcome, I wept aloud.

As this gust of passion passed from me, I
felt more composed. I lay on the ground, and
giving the reins to my thoughts, repassed in my
mind my former] life ; and began, fold by fold,
to unwind the many errors of my heait, and to
discover how brutish, savage, and worthless I
had hitherto been. I could not however at that
time feel remorse, for methought I was born
anew ; my soul threw off the burthen of past
sin, to commence a new cai'eer in innocence and
love. Nothing harsh or rough remained to jar
with the soft feelings which the transactions of
the day had inspired ; I was as a child lisp-
ing its devotions after its mother, and my
plastic soul was remoulded by a master hand,
which I neither desired nor was able to resist.

This was the first commencement of my

4?0 THE LAST MAN.

friendship with Adrian, and I must comme-
morate this day as the most fortunate of my
hfe. I now began to be human. I was ad-
mitted within that sacred boundary which divides
the intellectual and moral nature of man from
that which characterizes animals. My best
feelings were called into play to give fitting re-
sponses to the generosity, wisdom, and amenity
of my new friend. He, with a noble goodness
all his own, took infinite delight in bestowing
to prodigality the treasures of his mind and
fortune on the long-neglected son of his father's
friend, the offspring of that gifted being whose
excellencies and talents he had heard comme-
morated from infancy.

After his abdication the late king had re-
treated from the sphere of politics, yet his do-
mestic circle afforded him small content. The ex-
queen had none of the virtues of domestic life,
and those of courage and daring which she pos-
sessed were rendered null by the secession of
her husband : she despised him, and did not

THE LAST MAN". 49

care to conceal her sentiments. The king had,
in comphance with her exactions, cast off his
old friends, but he had acquired no new ones
under her guidance. In this dearth of sympathy,
he had recourse to his almost infant son ; and
the early development of talent and sensibility
rendered Adrian no unfitting depository of his
father's confidence. He was never weary of
listening to the latter's often repeated accounts
of old times, in which my father had played a
distinguished part ; his keen remarks w^re re-
peated to the boy, and remembered by him ;
his wit, his fascinations, his very faults ^vere
hallowed by the regret of affection ; his loss
was sincerely deplored. Even the queen's dis-
like of the favourite was ineffectual to deprive
him of his son's admiration : it was bitter, sar-
castic, contemptuous — but as she bestowed her
heavy censui'e alike on his virtues as his errors,
on his devoted friendship and his ill-bestowed
loves, on his disinterestedness and his prodi-
gality, on his pre-possessing grace of manner,

VOL. I. D

50 THE LAST MAN.

and the facility with which he yielded to temp-
tation, her double shot proved too heavy, and
fell short of the mark. Nor did her angry
dislike prevent Adrian from imaging my fa-
ther, as he had said, the type of all that was
gallant, amiable, and fascinating in man. It
was not strange therefore, that when he heard
of the existence of the offspring of this cele-
brated person, he should have formed the plan
of bestowing on them all the advantages his
rank made him rich to afford. When he found
me a vagabond shepherd of the hills, a poacher,
an unlettered savage, still his kindness did not
fail. In addition to the opinion he entertained
that his father was to a degree culpable of ne-
glect towards us, and that he was bound to every
possible reparation, he was pleased to say that
under all my ruggedness there glimmered forth
an elevation of spirit, which could be distin-
guished from mere animal courage, and that I
inherited a similarity of countenance to my father,
which gave proof that all his virtues and talents

THE LAST MAX. 51

had not died with him. Whatever those might
be which descended to me, my noble young friend
resolved should not be lost for want of culture.

Acting upon this plan in our subsequent in-
tercourse, he led me to wish to participate in
that cultivation which o^raced his own intellect.
My active mind, when once it seized upon this
new idea, fastened on it with extreme avidity.
At first it was the great object of my ambition
to rival the merits of my fatlier, and render
myself worthy of the friendship of Adrian.
But curiosity soon awoke, and an earnest love
of knowledge, which caused me to pass days
and nights in reading and study. I was already
well acquainted with what I may term the pa-
norama of nature, the change of seasons, and
the vai'ious appearances of heaven and earth.
But I was at once startled and enchanted by
my sudden extension of vision, when the cur-
tain, which had been drawn before the intel-
lectual world, was withdrawn, and I saw the
universe, not only as it presented itself to my
1)2

UBRARY
^N'VERSITYOF,U//VO/S

52 THE LAST MAN.

outward senses, but as it had appeared to the
wisest among men. Poetry and its creations,
philosophy and its researches and classifications,
alike awoke the sleeping ideas in my mind, and
gave me new ones.

I felt as the sailor, who from the topmast
first discovered the shore of America ; and hke
him I hastened to tell my companions of my
discoveries in unknown regions. But I was
unable to excite in any breast the same craving
appetite for knowledge that existed in mine.
Even Perdita was unable to understand me. I
had lived in what is generally called the world
of reality, and it was awakening to a new
country to find that there was a deeper meaning
in all I saw, besides* that which my eyes con-
veyed to me. The visionary Perdita beheld in
all this only a new gloss upon an old reading,
and her own was sufficiently inexhaustible to
content her. She hstened to me as she had
done to the narration of my adventures, and
sometimes took an interest in this species of

•THE LAST MAN. 53

mformation ; but she did not, as I did, look on it
as an integral part of her being, which having
obtained, I could no more put off than the uni-
vea-sal sense of touch.

We both agreed in loving Adrian : although
she not having yet escaped from childhood
could not appreciate as I did the extent of his
mei'its, or feel the same sympathy in his pur-
suits and opinions. I was for ever with him.
There was a sensibility and sweetness in his
disposition, that gave a tender and unearthly
tone to our converse. Then he was gay as a
iark carolling from its skiey tower, soaring in
thought as an eagle, innocent as the mild-eyed
dove. He could dispel the seriousness of Per-
dita, and take the sting from the torturing ac-
tivity of my nature. I looked back to my
restless desires and painful struggles with my
fellow beings as to a troubled dream, and felt
myself as much changed as if I had transmi-
grated into another form, whose fresh senso-
rium and mechansim of nerves had altered the re-

O-* THE LAST MAN.

flection of the apparent imiverse in the mirror
of mind. But it was not so ; I was the pame in
strength, in earnest craving for sympathy, in
my yearning for active exertion. My manly
virtues did not desert me, for the witch Urania
spared the locks of Sampson, while he reposed
at her feet ; but all was softened and humanized.
Nor did Adrian instruct me only in the cold
truths of history and philosophy. At the same
time that he taught me by their means to
subdue my own reckless and uncultured
spirit, he opened to my view the living page
of his own heart, and gave me to feel
and understand its wondrous character.

The ex-queen of England had, even during
infancy, endeavoured to implant daring and am-
bitious designs in the mind of her son. Sli€
saw that he was endowed with genius and sur-
passing talent ; these she cultivated for the sake
of afterwards using them for the furtherance of
her own views. She encouraged his craving for
knowledge and his impetuous courage ; she even

THE LAST MAN. 55

tolerated his tameless love of freedom, under
the hope that this would, as is too often the
case, lead to a passion for command. She en-
deavoured to bring him up in a sense of resent-
ment towards, and a desire to revenge himself
upon, those who had been instrumental in bring-
ing about his father^s abdication. In this she
did not succeed. The accounts furnished him,
however distorted, of a great and wise nation
asserting its right to govern itself, excited his
admiration : in early days he became a republi-
can from principle- Still his mother did not
despair. To the love of rule and haughty pride
of birth she added determined ambition, patience,
and self-control. She devoted herself to the
study of her son's disposition. By the applica-
tion of praise, censure, and exhortation, she tried
to seek and strike the fitting chords ; and though
the melody that followed her touch seemed dis-
card to her, she built her hopes on his talents,
and felt sure that she would at last win him.

56 THE LAST MAir.

The kind of banishment he now experienced
arose from other causes.

The ex-queen had also a daughter, now twelve
years of age ; his fairy sister, Adrian was wont
to call her ; a lovely, animated, little thing, all
sensibility and truth. With these, her children^
the noble widow constantly resided at Windsor;
and admitted no visitors, except her own parti-
zans, travellers from her native Germany, and a
few of the foreign ministers. Among these, and
highly distinguished by her, was Prince Zaimi,
ambassador to England from the free States
of Greece ; and his daughter, the young
Princess Evadne, passed much of her time at
Windsor Castle. In company with this sprightly
and clever Greek girl, the Countess would relax
from her usual state. Her views with reo^ard
to her own children, placed all her words and
actions relative to them under restraint: but
Evadne was a plaything she could in no way
fear; nor were her talents and vivacity slight

THE LAST MAN. 57

alleviations to the monotony of the Countess's
life.

Evadne was eighteen years of age. Although
they spent much time together at Windsor, the
extreme youth of Adrian prevented any suspi-
cion as to the nature of their intercourse. But
he was ardent and tender of heart beyond the com-
mon nature of man, and had already learnt to love,
"while the beauteous Greek smiled benlgnantly on
the boy. It was strange to me, who, though older
than Adrian, had never loved, to witness the whole
heart's sacrifice of my friend. There was neither
jealousy, inquietude, or mistrust in his sentiment;
it was devotion and faith. His life was swallowed
up in the existence of his beloved ; and his heart
beat only in unison with the pulsations that vivi-
fied hers. This was the secret law of his life —
he loved and was beloved. The universe was to
him a dwelling, to inhabit with his chosen one ;
and not either a scheme of society or an en-
chainment of events, that could impart to him
either happiness or misery. What, though
d3

58 THE LAST MAN".

life and the system of social intercourse were a
wilderaess, a tiger-haunted jungle { Through the
midst of its errors, in the depths of its savage
recesses, there was a disentangled and flowery
pathway, through which they might journey in
safety and dehght. Their track would be like
the passage of the Red Sea, which they
might traverse with unwet feet, though a
wall of destruction were impending on either
side.

Alas ! why must I record the hapless delusion
of this matchless specimen of humanity ? What
is there in our nature that is for ever urging us
on towards pain and misery ? We are not formed
for enjoyment ; and, however we may be attuned
to the reception of pleasureable emotion, disap-
pointment is the never-failing pilot of our life's
bark, and ruthlessly carries us on to the shoals.
Who was better framed than this highly-gifted
youth to love and be beloved, and to reap un-
alienable joy from an unblamed passion ? If his
heart had slept but a few years longer, he might

THE LAST MAN. 59

have been saved ; but it awoke in its infancy ;
it had power, but no knowledge; and it was
ruined, even as a too early-blowing bud is nipt
by the killing frost.

I did not accuse Evadne of hypocrisy or a
wish to deceive her lover ; but the first letter that
I saw of hers convinced me that she did not
love liim ; it was written with elegance, and,
foreigner as she was, with great command of
language. The hand-writing itself was exqui-
sitely beautiful ; there was something in her
very paper and its folds, which even I, who did not
love, and was withal unskilled in such matters,
could discern as being tasteful. There was much
kindness, gratitude, and sweetness in her expres-
sion, but no love. Evadne was two years older
than Adrian ; and who, at eighteen, ever loved
one so much their junior ? I compared her placid
epistles with the burning ones of Adrian. His soul
seemed to distil itself into the words he wrote; and
they breathed on the paper, bearing with them a
portion of the life of love, which was his hfe.

60 THE LAST :^rA^^

The very writing used to exhaust him ; and he
would weep over them, merely from the excess
of emotion they awakened in his heart.

Adrian's soul was painted in his countenance,
and concealment or deceit v>'ere at the antipodes
to the dreadless frankness of his nature. Evadne
made it her earnest request that the tale of their
]oves should not be revealed to his mother ; and
after for a while contesting the point, he yielded
it to her. A vain concession ; his demeanour
quickly betrayed his secret to the quick eyes of
the ex-queen. With the same wary prudence
that characterized her whole conduct, she con-
cealed her discovery, but hastened to remove
her son from the sphere of the attractive Greek.
He was sent to Cumberland ; but the plan of
correspondence between the lovers, arranged by
Evadne, was effectually hidden from her. Thus
the absence of Adrian, concerted for the purpose
of separating, united them in firmer bonds than
ever. To me he discoursed ceaselessly of his
beloved Ionian. Her country, its ancient an-

THE LAST MAN. 61

nals, its late memorable struggles, were all made
to partake in her glory and excellence. He sub-
mitted to be away from her, because she com-
manded this submission ; but for her influence,
he would have declared his attachment before
all England, and resisted, with unshaken con-
stancy, his mother's opposition. Evadne's femi-
nine prudence perceived how useless any asser-
tion of his resolves would be, till added years
gave weight to his power. Perhaps there was
besides a lurking dislike to bind herself in the
face of the world to one whom she did not love
— not love, at least, with that passionate enthu-
siasm which her heart told her she might one
day feel towards another. He obeyed her in-
junctions, and passed a year in exile in Cum-
berland.

62 THE LAST MAK*

CHAPTER III

Happy, thrice happy, were the months, and
weeks, and hours of that year. Friendship,
hand in hand with admiration, tenderness
and respect, built a bower of dehght in my
Jieart, late rough as an untrod wild in America,
as the homeless wind or herbless sea. Insatiate
thirst for knowledge, and boundless affection
for Adrian, combined to keep both my heart
and understanding occupied, and I was conse-
quently happy. What happiness is so true and
unclouded, as the overflowing and talkative de-
light of young people. In our boat, upon my
native lake, beside the streams and the pale
bordering poplars — in valley and over hill, my

THE LAST MAN. 63

crook thrown aside, a nobler flock to tend than
silly sheep, even a flock of new-born ideas, I
read or listened to Adi'ian ; and his discourse,
whether it concerned his love or his theories for
the improvement of man, alike entranced me.
Sometimes my lawless mood would return,
my love of peril, my resistance to authority;
but this was in his absence ; under the mild
sway of his dear eyes, I was obedient and good
as a boy of five years old, who does his mother's
bidding.

After a residence of about a year at Uls-
water, Adrian visited London, and came back
full of plans for our benefit. You must begin
life, he said : you are seventeen, and longer de-
lay would render the necessary apprenticeship
more and more irksome. He foresaw that his
own life would be one of stniggle, and I must
partake his labours with him. The better to
fit me for this task, we must now separate.
He found my name a good passport to pre-
ferment, and he had procured for me the situa-

64 THE LAST MAN.

tcan of private secretary to the Ambassador at
Vienna, where I should enter on my career
under the best auspices. In two years, I
should return to my country, with a name well
known and a reputation already founded.

And Perdita ? — Perdita was to become the
pupil, friend and younger sister of Evadne.
AVith his usual thoughtfulness, he had provided
for her independence in this situation How
refuse the offers of this generous friend ? —
I did not wish to refuse them ; but in my heart
of hearts, I made a vow to devote life, know-
ledge, and power, all of which, in as much as
they were of any value, he had bestowed on me
— all, all my capacities and hopes, to him alone
I would devote.

Thus I promised myself, as I journied to-
wards my destination with roused and ardent
expectation : expectation of the fulfilment of
all that in boyhood we promise ourselves of
power and enjoyment in maturity. Methought
the time was now arrived, when, childish occu-

THE LAST MAN* 65

pations laid aside, I should enter into life.
Even in the Elysian fields, Virgil describes
the sotds of the happy as eager to drink of
the wave which was to restore them to this
mortal coil. The young are seldom in Ely-
sium, for their desires, outstripping possibility,
leave them as poor as a moneyless debtor. We
are told by the wisest philosophers of the
dangers of the world, the deceits of men, and
the treason of our own hearts : but not the less
fearlessly does each put off his frail bark from
the port, spread the sail, and strain his oar, to
attain the multitudinous streams of the sea of
life. How few in youth's prime, moor their
vessels on the " golden sands,"" and collect the
painted shells that strew them. But all at close
of day, with riven planks and rent canvas make
for shore, and are either wrecked ere they
reach it, or find some wave-beaten haven, some
desart straind, whereon to cast themselves and
die unmourned.

A truce to philosophy ! — Life is before me^

THE LAST MAX. 67

of the Ambassador. All was strange and ad-
mirable to the shepherd of Cumberland. With
breathless amaze I entered on the gay scene,
whose actors were

the lilies dorious as Solomon.

Who toil net, neither do they spin.

Soon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl ;
forgetting my studious hours, and the compa-
nionship of Adrian. Passionate desire of sym-
pathy, and ardent pursuit for a wished-for ob-
ject still characterized me. The sight of beauty
entranced me, and attractive manners in man
or woman won my entire confidence. I called
it rapture, when a smile made my heart beat ;
and I felt the life's blood tingle in ray fran^e,
when I approached the idol which for awhile I
worshipped. The mere flow of animal spirits
was Paradise, and at night's close I only desired
a renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The
dazzling light of ornamented rooms; lovely
forms arrayed in splendid dresses ; tlie motions

68 THE LAST MAN.

of a dance, the voluptuous tones of exquisite
music, cradled my senses in one delightful
dream.

And is not this in its kind happiness ? I ap-
peal to moralists and sages. I ask if in the
cahn of their measured reveries, if in the deep
meditations which fill their hours, they feel the
extasy of a youthful tyro in the school of plea-
sure ? Can the calm beams of their heaven-
seeking eyes equal the flashes of mingling pas-
sion which blind his, or does the influence of
codd philosophy steep their soul in a joy equal
to ills, engaged

In this dear work of youthful revelry.

Bnt in truth, neither the lonely meditations
of tlie hermit, nor the tumultuous raptures of
the reveller, are capable of satisfying mafi's
heart. From the one we gather unquiet specu-
lation, from the other satiety. The mind
flags beneath the weight of thought, and droops
in the heartless intercourse of those whose

THE LAST MAN. 69

sole aim is amusement. There is no fruition
in their vacant kindness, and sharp rocks lurk
beneath the smiling ripples of these shallow
waters.

Thus I felt, when disappointment, weariness,
and solitude drove me back upon my heart, to
gather thence the joy of Mbich it had become
barren. My flagging spirits asked for something
to speak to the affections ; and not finding it, I
drooped. Thus, notwithstanding the thought-
less delight that waited on its commencement,
the impression I have of my life at Vienna is
melancholy. Goethe has said, that in youth v/e
cannot be happy unless we love. I did not love ;
but I was devoured by a restless wish to be
something to others. I became the victim of
ingratitude and cold coquetry — then I desponded,
and imagined that my discontent gave me a right
to hate the world. I receded to solitude ; I had
recourse to my books, and ray desire again to en-
joy the society of Adrian became a burning thirst.

Emulation, that in its excess almost assumed

70 THE LAST MAN.

the venomous properties of envy, gave a sting
to tliese feelings. At this period the name and
exploits of one of my countrymen filled the world
with admiration. Relations of what he had done,
conjectures concerning his future actions, were
the never- failing topics of the hour. I was not
angry on my own account, but I felt as if the
j>raises which this idol received were leaves torn
from laurels destined for Adrian. But I must
enter into some account of this darling of fam.e
— tliis favourite of the wonder-loving world.

Lord Raymond was the sole remnaht of a
noble but impoverished family. From early
youth he had considered his pedigree with
complacency, and bitterly lamented his want of
wealth. His first wish was aggrandisement; and
the means that led towards this end were se-
condary considerations. Haughty, yet trembling
to every demonstration of respect; ambitious,
but too proud to shew his ambition ; willing to
achieve honour, yet a votary of pleasure, — he
entered upon life. He was met on the threshold

THE LAST MAN. 71"

by some insult, real or imaginary; some repulse,
where he least expected it ; some disap]X)int-
ment, hard for his pride to bear. He writhed
beneath an injury he Avas unable to revenge ;
and he quitted England with a vow not to re-
tuni, till the good time should arrive, when she
might feel the power of him she now despised.

He became an adventurer in the Greek wars.
His reckless courage and comprehensive genius
brought him into notice. He became the dar-
ling hero of this rising people. His fore'gn
birtli, and he refused to throw off his allegiance
to hi^s native country, alone prevented him from
filling the first offices in the state. But, though
others might rank higher in title and ceremony,
Lord Raymond held a station above and beyond
all tliis. He led the Greek armies to victory ; their
triumphs were all his own. When he appeared,
whole towns poured forth their popidation to
meet him ; new songs were adapted to their na-
tional airs, whose themes were his glory, valour,
and munificence.

7S THE LAST MAN.

A truce was concluded between the Greeks
and Turks. At the same tmie, Lord Raymond,
by some unlooked-for chance, became the pos-
sessor of an immense fortune in England, whi-
ther he returned, crowned with glory, to receive
the meed of honour and distinction before de-
nied to his pretensions. His proud heart rebelled
against this change. In what was the despised Ray-
mond not the same ? If the acquisition of power
in the shape of wealth caused this alteration,
that power should they feel as an iron yoke.
Power therefore was the aim of all his endea-
vours; aggrandizement ihe mark at which he
for ever shot. In open ambition or close in-
trigue, his end was the same — to attain the first
station in his own country.

This account filled me with curiosity. The
events that in succession followed his return to
England, gave me keener feelings. Among his
other advantages. Lord Raymond was supremely
handsome; every one admired him ; of women he
was the idol. He was courteous, honey-tongued —

THE LAST MAN. 73

an adept in fascinating arts. What could not
this man achieve in the busy Enghsh world ?
Change succeeded to change ; the entire history
did not reach me ; for Adrian had ceased to
write, and Perdita was a laconic correspondent.

The rumour went that Adrian had become

how write the fatal word — mad: that Lord
Raymond Mas the favourite of the ex-queen,
her daughter's destined husband. Nay, more,
that this aspiring noble revived the claim of the
liouse of AVindsor to the crown, and that, on the
event of Adrian's incurable disorder and his
marriage with the sister, the brow of the ambi«
tious Raymond might be encircled with the
magic ring of regality.

Such a tale filled the trumpet of many voiced
fame ; such a tale rendered my longer stay at
\ ienna, away from the friend of my youth,
intolerable. Now I must fulfil my vow ; now
range myself at his side, and be his ally and
support till death. Farewell to courtly plea-
sures ; to politic intrigue ; to the maze of

VOL. 1. E

74 THE LAST MAX.

passion and folly ! All hail, England ! Native
England, receive thy child ! thou art the scene
of all my hopes, the mighty theatre on which
is acted the only drama that can, heart and soul,
bear me along with it in its development. A
voice most irresistible, a power omnipotent,
drew me thither. After an absence of two
years I landed on its shores, not daring to make
any inquiries, fearfid of every remark. My
first visit would be to my sister, who inhabited
a little cottage, a part of Adrian's gift, on the
borders of Windsor Forest. From her I should
learn the truth concerning our protector ; I
should hear why she had withdrawn from the
protection of the Princess Evadne, and be in-
structed as to the influence wliich this over-
topping and towering Raymond exercised over
the fortunes of my friend.

I had never before been in the neighbour-
hood of Windsor ; the fertility and beauty of
the country around now struck me with admi-
ration, which encreased as I approached tlie

THE LAST MAX. 75

antique wood. The ruins of majestic oaks which
had grown, flourished, and decayed during the
progress of centuries, marked where the hmits
of the forest once reached, while the shattered
palings and neglected underwood shewed that
this part was deserted for the younger plantations,
which owed their birth to the beginning of the
nineteenth century, and now stood in the pride
of maturity. Perdita's humble dwelling was
situated on the skirts of the most ancient por-
tion ; before it was stretched Bishopgate Heath,
which towards the east appeared interminable,
and was bounded to the west by Chapel Wood
and the grove of Virginia Water. Behind, the
cottage was shadowed by the venerable fathers
of the forest, under which the deer catne to
graze, and which for the most part hollow and
decayed, formed fantastic groups that contrasted
wuth the regular beauty of the younger trees.
These, the offspring of a later period, stood
erect and seemed ready to advance fearlessly
into coming time ; while those out worn strag-
E 2

76 THE LAST MAN.

glers, blasted and broke, clung to each other,
their weak boughs sighing as the wind buffetted
them— a weather-beaten crew.

A light railing surrounded the garden of the
cottage, which, low-roofed, seemed to submit
to the majesty of nature, and cower amidst the
venerable remains of forgotten time. Flowers,
the children of the spring, adorned her garden
and easements ; in the midst of lowliness there
was an air of elegance v/hich spoke the graceful
taste of the inmate. With a beating heart I
entered the enclosure; as I stood at the en-
trance, I heard her voice, melodious as it had
ever been, which before I saw her assured me
of her welfare.

A moment more and Perdita appeared ; she
stood before me in the fresh bloom of youthful
womanhood, different from and yet the same as
the mountain girl I had left. Her eyes could
not be deeper than they were in childhood, nor
her countenance more expressive ; but the ex-
pression was changed and improved; intelli-

THE LAST MAN. 77

gence sat on her brow ; when she smiled her
face was embellished by the softest sensibiUty,
and her low, modulated voice seemed tuned by
love. Her person was formed in the most femi-
nine proportions ; she was not tall, but her
mountain life had given freedom to her motions,
so that her light step scarce made her foot-fall
heard as she tript across the hall to meet me.
When we had parted, I had clasped her to my
bosom with unrestrained warmth ; we met again,
and new feelings were awakened ; when each
beheld the other, childhood passed, as full grown
actors on this changeful scene. The pause was
but for a moment ; the flood of association and
natural feeling which had been checked, again
rushed in full tide upon our hearts, and with
tenderest emotion we were swiftly locked in
each other's embrace.

This burst of passionate feeling over, with
iialmed thoughts we sat together, talking of the
past and present. I alluded to the coldness of
h^Y letters ; but the few minutes we had spent

78 THE LAST MAN.

together sufficiently explained the origin of this.
New feelings had arisen within her, which she
was unable to express in writing to one whom she
had only known in childhood ; but we saw each
other again, and our intimacy was renewed as
if nothing had intervened to check it. I de-
tailed the incidents of my sojourn abroad, and
then questioned her as to the changes that had
taken place at home, the causes of Adrian's
absence, and her secluded life.

The tears that suffused my sister's eyes when
I mentioned our friend, and her heightened
colour seemed to vouch for the truth of the
reports that had reached me. But their import
was too terrible for me to give instant credit to
my suspicion. Was there indeed anarchy in
the sublime universe of Adi'ian's thoughts, did
madness scatter the well-appointed legions, and
was he no longer the lord of his own soul ? Be-
loved friend, this ill world was no clime for
your gentle spirit ; you delivered up its go-
vernance to false humanity^ which stript it of

THE LAST MAN. 79

its leaves ere winter-time, and laid bare its qui-
vering life to the evil ministration of roughest
winds. Have those gentle eyes, those " chan-
nels of the soul" lost their meaning, or do they
only in their glare disclose the horrible tale of
its aberrations? Does that voice no longer
" discourse excellent music ?"" Horrible, most
horrible ! I veil my eyes in terror of the change,
and gushing tears bear witness to my sympathy
for this unimaginable ruin.

In obedience to my request Perdita detailed
the melancholy circumstances that led to this
event.

The frank and unsuspicious mind of Adrian,
gifted as it was by every natural grace, endowed
with transcendant powers of intellect, unblem-
ished by the shadow of defect (unless his dread-
less independence of thought was to be construed
into one), was devoted, even as a victim to sa-
crifice, to his love for Evadne. He entrusted to
her keeping the treasures of his soul, his aspira-
tions after excellence, and his plans for the im-

80 THE LAST MAN.

provement of mankind. As manhood dawned
upon him, his schemes and theories, far from
being changed by personal and prudential mo-
tives, acquired new strength from the powers
he felt arise within him ; and his love for
Evadne became deep-rooted, as he each day be-
came more certain that the path he pursued was
full of difficulty, and that he must seek his re-
ward, not in the applause or gratitude of his
fellow creatures, hardly in the success of his
plans, but in the approbation of his own heart,
and in her love and sympathy, which was to
lighten every toil and recompence every sa-
crifice.

In sohtude, and through many wanderings
afar from the haunts of men, he matured his
views for the reform of the Enghsh government,,
and the improvement of the people. It would
have been well if he had concealed his senti-
ments, until he had come into possession of the
power which would secure their practical de-
velopment. But he was impatient of the

THE LAST MAN. 81

3'ears that must intervene, he was frank of
heart and fearless. He gave not only a brief
denial to his mother's schemes, but published
his intention of using his influence to diminish
the power of the aristocracy, to effect a greater
equalization of wealth and privilege, and to
introduce a perfect system of republican govern-
ment into England. At first his mother treated
his theories as the wild ravings of inexperience.
But they were so systematically arranged, and
his arguments so well supported, that though
still in appearance incredulous, she began to
fear him. She tried to reason with him, and
finding him inflexible, learned to hate him.

Strange to say, this feeling was infectious.
His enthusiasm for good v/hich did not exist ;
his contempt for the sacredness of authority ;
his ardour and imprudence were all at the an-
tipodes of the usual routine of life ; the worldly
feared him ; the young and inexperienced did
not understand the lofty severity of his moral
views, and disliked him as a being different
E 3

82 THE LAST UA^.

from themselves. Evadne entered but coldly
into his systems. She thought he did well to
assert his own will, but she wished that will to
have been more intelligible to the multitude.
She had none of the spirit of a martyr, and did
not incline to share the shame and defeat of a
fallen patriot. She was aware of the purity of
his motives, the generosity of his disposition,
his true and ardent attachment to her ; and she
entertained a great affection for him. He re-
paid this spirit of kindness with the fondest gra-
titude, and made her the treasure-house of all
his hopes.

At this time Lord Raymond returned from
Greece. No two persons could be more oppo-
site than Adrian and he. With all the incon-
gruities of his character, Raymond was em-
phatically a man of the world. His passions
were violent ; as these often obtained the mas-
tery over him, he could not always square his
conduct to the obvious hne of self-interest, but
self-gratification at least was the paramount ob-

THE LAST MAN.

ject with him. He looked on the structure of
society as but a part of the machinery which
supported the web on which his hfe was traced.
The earth was spread out as an highway for
him ; the heavens built up as a canopy for him.

Adi-ian felt that he made a part of a great
whole. He owned affinity not only with man-
kind, but all nature was akin to him; the
mountains and sky were his friends ; the winds
of heaven and the offsprmg of earth his play-
mates ; while he the focus only of this mighty
mirror, felt his life mingle with the universe of
existence. His soul was sympathy, and dedi-
cated to the worship of beauty and excellence.
Adrian and Raymond now came into contact,
and a spirit of aversion rose between them.
Adrian despised the narrow views of the poli-
tician, and Raymond held in supreme contempt
the benevolent visions of the philanthropist.

With the coming of Raymond was formed
the storm that laid waste at one fell blow the
gardens of dehght and sheltered paths which

84 THE LAST MAN.

Adrian fancied that he had secured to himself,
as a refuge from defeat and contumely. Ray-
mond, the dehverer of Greece, the graceful
soldier, who bore in his mien a tinge of all that,
peculiar to her native clime, Evadne cherished
as most dear — Raymond was loved by Evadne.
Overpowered by her new sensations, she did
not pause to examine them, or to regulate her
conduct by any sentiments except the tyrannical
one which suddenly usurped the empire of her
heart. She yielded to its influence, and the too
natural consequence in a mind unatluned to
soft emotions was, that the attentions of Adrian
became distasteful to her. She grew capricious ;
her gentle conduct towards him was exchanged
for asperity and repulsive coldness. When she
perceived the wild or pathetic appeal of his ex-
pressive countenance, she would relent, and for
a while resume her ancient kindness. But these
fluctuations shook to its depths the soul of the
sensitive youth ; he no longer deemed the world
subject to him, because he possessed Evadne' s

THE LAST MAN. 85

love ; he felt in every nerve that the dire storms
of the mental universe were about to attack his
fragile being, which quivered at the expecta-
tion of its advent.

Perdita, who then resided with Evadne, saw
the torture that Adrian endured. She loved him
as a kind elder brother ; a relation to guide,
protect, and instruct her, without the too fre-
quent tyranny of parental authority. She
adored his virtues, and with mixed contempt
and indignation she saw Evadne pile drear sor-
row on his head, for the sake of one who hardly
marked her. In his solitary despair Adrian would
often seek my sister, and in covered terms ex-
press his misery, while fortitude and agony
divided the throne of his mind. Soon, alas ! was
one to conquer. Anger made no part of his
emotion. AVith whom should he be angry?
Not with Raymond, who was unconscious of
the misery he occasioned ; not with Evadne,
for her his soul wept tears of blood— poor, mis-
taken girl, slave not tyrant was she, and amidst

86 THE LAST MAN.

his own anguish he grieved for her future des-
tiny. Once a writing of his fell into Perdita's
hands ; it was blotted with tears — well might
any blot it with the like —

" Life" — it began thus — " is not the thing
romance writers describe it ; going through the
measures of a dance, and after various evolu-
tions arriving at a conclusion, when the dancers
may sit down and repose. While there is life
there is action and change. We go on, each
thought hnked to the one which was its parent,
each act to a previous act. No joy or sorrow
dies barren of progeny, which for ever generated
and generating, weaves the chain that make our
life:

Un dia llama a otio dia
y ass i llama, y encadena
llanto a Uanto, y pena a pena.

Truly disappointment is the guardian deity of
human hfe ; she sits at the threshold of unborn
time, and marshals the events as they come
forth. Once my heart sat lightly in my bosom ;

THE LAST MAN. 87

all the beauty of the world was doubly beautiful,
irradiated by the sun-light shed from my own
soul. O wherefore are love and ruin for ever
joined in this our mortal dream ? So that when
we make our hearts a lair for that gently seem-
ing beast, its companion enters with it, and
pitilessly lays waste what might have been an
home and a shelter.""

By degrees his health was shaken by his
misery, and then his intellect yielded to the
same tyranny. His manners grew wild ; he
was sometimes ferocious, sometimes absorbed in
speechless melancholy. Suddenly Evadne quitted
London for Paris ; he followed, and overtook her
when the vessel was about to sail ; none knew
what passed between them, but Perdita had
never seen him since ; he lived in seclusion,
no one knew where, attended by such persons
as his mother selected for that purpose.

88 THE LAST MAN.

CHArTER IV.

The next day Lord Raymond called at Per-
dita's cottage, on his way to Windsor Castle.
My sister's heightened colour and sparkling eyes
half revealed her secret to me. He was perfectly
self-possessed; he accosted us both with cour-
tesy, seemed immediately to enter into our
feelings, and to make one with us. I scanned his
physiognomy, which varied as he spoke, yet
was beautiful in every change. The usual ex-
pression of his eyes was soft, though at times
he could make them even glare with ferocity ;
his complexion was colourless ; and every trait
spoke predominate self-will; his smile was
pleasing, though disdain too often curled his

THF LAST MAN. 89

lips— lips which to female eyes were the very
throne of beauty and love. His voice, usually
gentle, often startled you by a sharp discordant
note, which shewed that his usual low tone was
rather the work of study than nature. Thus
full of contradictions, unbending yet haughty,
gentle yet fierce, tender and again neglectful, he
by some strange art found easy entrance to the
admiration and affection of women; now ca-
ressing and now tyrannizing over them accord-
ing to his mood, but in every change a despot.

At the present time Raymond evidently
wished to appear amiable. Wit, hilarity, and
deep observation were mingled in his talk, ren-
dering every sentence that he uttered as a flash
of light. He soon conquered my latent distaste ;
I endeavoured to watch him and Perdita, and
to keep in mind every thing I had heard to his
disadvantage. But all appeared so ingenuous,
and all was so fascinating, that I forgot every-
thing except the pleasure his society afforded
jpe. Under the ide^i of initiating me in the

90 THE LAST MAN.

scene of English politics and society, of which I
was soon to become a part, he narrated a num-
ber of anecdotes, and sketched many characters ;
his discourse, rich and varied, flowed on, per-
vading all my senses with pleasure. But for
one thing he would have been completely tri-
umphant. He alluded to Adrian, and spoke of
him with that disparagement that the worldly
wise always attach to enthusiasm. He perceived
the cloud gathering, and tried to dissipate it ;
but the strength of my feelings would not per-
mit me to pass thus lightly over this sacred
subject ; so I said emphatically, " Permit me
to remark, that I am devotedly attached to the
Earl of Windsor ; he is my best friend and be-
nefactor. I reverence his goodness, I accord
with his opinions, and bitterly lament his pre-
sent, and I trust temporary, illness. That ill-
ness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to
me beyond words to hear him mentioned, unless
in terms of respect and affection."

Raymond replied ; but there was nothing

THE LAST MAN. 91

conciliatory in bis reply. I saw that in his
heart he despised those dedicated to any but
worldly idols. " Everyman," he said, " dreams
about something, love, honour, and pleasure ;
you dream of friendship, and devote your-
self to a maniac ; well, if that be your voca-
tion, doubtless you are in the right to follow
it."—

Some reflection seemed to sting him, and the
spasm of pain that for a moment convulsed his
countenance, checked my indignation. " Hap-
py are dreamers,**' he continued, " so that they
be not awakened ! Would I could di'eam ! but
' broad and garish day' is the element in which
I hve ; the dazzling glare of reality inverts the
scene for me. Even the ghost of friendship has

departed, and love" He broke off ; nor could

I guess whether the disdain that curled his lip
was directed against the passion, or against him-
self for being its slave.

This account may be taken as a sample of

92 THE LAST MAN.

my intercourse with Lord Raymond. I became
intimate with him, and each day afforded me
occasion to admire more and more his powerful
and versatile talents, that together with his
eloquence, which was graceful and witty, and
his wealth now immense, caused him to be
feared, loved, and hated beyond any other man
in England.

My descent, which claimed interest, if not
respect, my former connection with Adrian,
the favour of the ambassador, whose secretary
I had been, and now my intimacy with Lord
Raymond, gave me easy access to the fashion-
able and pohtical circles of England. To my
inexperience we at first appeared on the eve of
a civil war ; each party was violent, acrimoni-
ous, and unyielding. Parliament was divided
by three factions, aristocrats, democrats, and
royalists. After Adrian's declared^ predeliction
to the republican form of government, the latter
party had nearly died away, chiefless, guide-.

THE LAST MAX. 93

less ; but, when Lord Raymond came forward
as its leader, it revived with redoubled force.
Some were royalists from prejudice and ancient
affection, and there were many moderately in-
clined who feared alike the capricious tyranny
of the popular party, and the unbending des-
potism of the aristocrats. More than a third of
the members ranged themselves under Ray-
mond, and their number was perpetually en-
creasing. The aristocrats built their hopes on
their preponderant wealth and influence ; the
reformers on the force of the nation itself; the
debates were violent, more violent the discourses
held by each knot of politicians as they assem-
bled to arrange their measures. Opprobrious
epithets were bandied about, resistance even to
the death threatened ; meetings of the populace
disturbed the quiet order of the country ; ex-
cept in war, how could all this end ? Even as
the destructive flames were ready to break
forth, I saw them shrink back ; allayed by the ab-
sence of the military, by the aversion entertained

94 THE LAST MAN.

by every one to any violence, save that of
speech^ and by the cordial politeness and even
friendship of the hostile leaders when they met
in private society. I was from a thousand mo-
tives induced to attend minutely to the course
of events, and watch each turn with intense
anxiety.

I could not but perceive that Perdita loved
Raymond ; methought also that he regarded
the fair daughter of Verney with admiration
and tenderness. Yet I knew that he was urg-
ing forward his marriage with the presumptive
heiress of the Earldom of Windsor, \\ith keen
expectation of the advantages that would thence
accrue to him. All the ex-queen's friends were
his friends; no week passed that he did not
hold consultations with her at Windsor.

I had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had
heard that she was lovely, amiable, and fasci-
nating. Wherefore should I see her ? There
are times when we have an indefinable senti-
ment of impending change for better or for

THE LAST MAK. 95

worse, to arise from an event ; and, be it for
better or for worse, we fear the change, and shun
the event. For this reason I avoided this high-
born damsel. To me she was everything and
nothing ; her very name mentioned by another
made me start and tremble ; the endless discus-
sion concerning her union with Lord Raymond
was real agony to me. Methought that, Adrian
withdrawn from active life, and this beauteous
Idris, a victim probably to her mother's ambiti-
ous schemes, I ought to come forward to protect
her from undue influence, guard her from un-
happiness, and secure to her freedom of choice,
the right of every human being. Yet how
was I to do this ? She herself would dis-
dain my interference. Since then I must be
an object of indifference or contempt ro
her, better, far better avoid her, nor expose
myself before her and the scornful world to the
chance of playing the mad game of a fond, fool-
ish Icarus.

96 THE LAST MAN.

One day, several months after my return to
England, I quitted London to visit my sister.
Her society was my chief solace and delight ;
and my spirits always rose at the expectation of
seeing her. Her conversation was full of pointed
remark and discernment ; in her pleasant al-
cove, redolent with sweetest flowers, adorned
by magnificent casts, antique vases, and copies
of the finest pictures of Raphael, Correggio,
and Claude, painted by herself, I fancied myself
in a fairy retreat untainted by and inaccessible
to the noisy contentions of politicians and the
frivolous pursuits of fashion. On this occa-
sion, my sister was not alone ; nor could
I fail to recognise her companion : it was
Idris, the till now unseen object of my mad
idolatry.

In what fitting terms of wonder and delight,
in what choice expression and soft flow of lan-
guage, can I usher in the loveliest, wisest, best?
How in poor assemblage of words convey the

TJIE LAST MAN. 97

halo of glory that surrounded her, the thousand
graces that waited unwearied on her. The first
thing that struck you on beholding that charm-
ing countenance was its perfect goodness and
frankness; candour sat upon her brow, sim-
plicity in her eyes, heavenly benignity in her
smile. Her tall slim figure bent gracefully as
a poplar to the breezy west, and her gait, god-
dess-like, was as that of a winged angel new alit
from heaven's high floor ; the pearly fairness of
her complexion was stained by a pure suffusion ;
her voice resembled the low, subdued tenor of a
flute. It is easiest perhaps to describe by con-
trast. I have detailed the perfections of my
sister; and yet she was utterly unlike Idris.
Perdita, even where she loved, was reserved and
timid ; Idris was frank and confiding. The one
recoiled to solitude, that she might there en-
trench herself from disappointment and injury;
the other walked forth in open day, believing
that none would harm her. Wordsworth lias
compared a beloved female to two fair objects

VOL. I. F

98 THE LAST MAN.

in nature ; but his lines always appeared to me
rather a contrast than a similitude :

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye.
Fair as a star ■^hea only one

Is shining in ihe sky.

Such a violet was sweet Perdita, trembhng to
entrust herself to the very air, cowering from
observation, yet betrayed by her excellences;
and repaying v.ith a thousand graces the labour
of those who sought her in her lonely bye-path.
Idris was as the star, set in single splendour in
the dim anadem of balmy evening ; ready to
enhghten and delight the subject world, shielded
herself from every taint by her unimagined dis-
tance from all that was not like herself akin to
heaven.

I found this vision of beauty in Perdita* s al-
cove, in earnest conversation with its inmate.
When my sister saw me, she rose, and taking
my hand, said, " He is here, even at our wish ;
this is Lionel, my brother."

THE LAST MAX. 99

Idris arose also, and bent on me her eyes of
celestial blue, and with grace peculiar said —
" You hardly need an introduction ; we have a
picture, highly valued by my father, which de-
clares at once your name. Verney, you will
acknowledge this tie, and as my brother's friend,
I feel that I may trust you."

Then, with lids humid wiih a tear and trem-
bling voice, she continued — " Dear friends, do
not tiiink it strange that now, visiting vou for
the first time, I ask your a3?istance, and confide
my wlsliGs and fears to you. To you alone do I
dare speak ; I have heard you commended by
impartial spectators ; you are my brother's
friends, therefore you must be mine. What
can I say ? if you refuse to aid me, I am lost
indeed !'' She cast up her eyes, while wonder
held her auditors mute ; then, as if carried
away by her feelings, she cried — " ]My brother !
beloved, ill-fated Adrian ! how speak of your
misfortunes ? Doubtless you have both heard
the current tale ; perhaps believe the slander ;
F 2

100 THE LAST MA7<:.

but he is not mad ! Were an angel from the
foot of God's throne to assert it, never, never
would I believe it. He is wronged, betrayed,

imprisoned save him ! Verney, you must do

this ; seek him out in whatever part of the island
he is immured; find him, rescue him from his
persecutors, restore him to himself, to me — on
the wide earth I have none to love but only him !"
Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately
expressed, filled me with wonder and sympa-
thy ; and, when she added, with thrilling voice
and look, " Do you consent to undertake this
enterprize ?'' I vowed, with energy and truth,
to devote myself in life and death to the resto-
ration and welfare of Adrian. We then con-
versed on the plan I should pursue, and dis-
cussed the probable means of discovering his
residence. While we were in earnest discourse,
Lord Raymond entered unannounced : I saw
Perdita tremble and grow deadly pale, and the
cheeks of Idris glow with purest blushes. He
must have been astonished at our conclave, dis-

THK LAST MAN. 101

turbed by it I should have thought ; but nothing
of this appeared ; he saluted my companions, and
addressed me ^vith a cordial greeting. Idris
appeared suspended for a moment, and then with
extreme sweetness, she said, " Lord Raymond,
I confide in your goodness and honour."

Smiling haughtily, he bent his head, and re-
plied, with emphasis, " Do you indeed confide,
Lady Idris .^"

She endeavoured to read his thought, and
then answered with dignity, " As you please.
It is certainly best not to compromise oneself by
any concealment.""

" Pardon me," he replied, " if I have of-
fended. Whether you trust me or not, rely on
my doing my utmost to further your wishes,
whatever they may be."

Idris smiled her thanks, and rose to take
leave. Lord Raymond requested permission to
accompany her to ^A'indsor Castle, to which she
consented, and they quitted the cottage together-
My sister and I were left — truly like two fools,

102 THE LAST MAN.

who fancied that they had obtained a golden
treasure, till daylight shewed it to be lead — two
silly, luckless flies, who had played in sunbeams
and were caught in a spider's web. I leaned
against the casement, and watched those two
glorious creatures, till they disappeared in the
forest-glades ; and then I turned. Perdita had
not moved ; her eyes fixed on the ground, her
cheeks pale, her very lips white, motionless and
rigid, every feature stamped by woe, she sat.
Half frightened, I would have taken her hand ;
but she shudderingly withdrew it, and strove to
collect herself. I entreated her to speak to me :
" Not now," she replied, " nor do you speak to
me, my dear Lionel ; you can say nothing, for
you know nothing. I will see you to-morrow ;
in the meantime, adieu ! ' She rose, and walked
from the room ; but pausing at the door, and
leaning against it, as if her over-busy thoughts
had taken from her the power of supporting
herself, she said, " Lord Raymond will proba-
bly return. Will you tell him that he must

THE LAST MAX. 103

excuse me to-day, for I am not well. I will
see him to-morrow if he wishes it, and you also.
You had better return to London with liim ;
you can there make the enquiries agreed upon,
concerning the Earl of Windsor and visit me
again to-morrow, before you proceed on your
journey — till then, farewell !"

She spoke falteringly, and concluded with a
heavy sigh. I gave my assent to her request ;
and she left me. I felt as if, from the order of
the systematic world, I had plunged into chaos,
obscure, contrary, unintelligible. That Ray-
mond should marry Idris was more than ever
intolerable ; yet my passion, though a giant
from its birth, was too strange, wild, and
impracticable, for me to feel at once the misery
I perceived in Perdita. How should I act.'^
She had not confided in me ; I could not de-
mand an explanation from Raymond without the
hazard of betraying what was perhaps her most
treasured secret. I would obtain the truth from
iier the following day — in the mean time —

104 THE LAST MAN.

But, while I was occupied by multiplying re-
flections, Lord Raymond returned. He asked
for my sister; and I delivered her message.
After musing on it for a moment, he asked me
if I were about to return to London, and if I
would accompany him : I consented. He was
full of thought, and remained silent during a
considerable part of our ride ; at length he said,
" I must apologize to you for my abstraction ;
the truth is, Ry land's motion comes on to-
night, and I am considering my reply."

Ryland was the leader of the popular party,
a hard-headed man, and in hi& way eloquent ;
he had obtained leave to bring in a bill making
it treason to endeavour to change the present
state of the English government and the stand-
ing laws of the republic. This attack was di-
rected against Raymond and his machinations
for the restoration of the monarchy.

Raymond asked me if I would accompany
him to the House that evening. 1 remembered
my pursuit for intelligence concerning Adrian ;

THE LAST MAN. 105

and, knowing that my time would be fully oc-
cupied, I excused myself. " Nay," said my
companion, " I can free you from your present
impediment. You are going to make enquiries
concerning the Earl of Windsor. I can answer
them at once, he is at the Duke of Athol's seat
at Dunkeld. On the first approach of his dis-
order, he travelled about from one place to
another ; until, arriving at that romantic seclu-
sion he refused to quit it, and we made ar-
rano^ements with the Duke for his continuinor
there."

I was hurt by the careless tone with which he
conveyed this information, and replied coldly :
" I am obliged to you for your intelligence, and
will avail myself of it.''

" You shall, Verney," said he, " and if you
continue of the same mind, I will facilitate your
views. But first witness, I beseech you, the
result of this night's contest, and the triumph
I a:n about to achieve, if I may so call it, while
I fear that victory is to me defeat. "What can
F 3

106' THE Lx\ST MAN.

I do ? My dearest hopes appear to be near their
fulfilment. The ex-queen gives me Idris ;
Adrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the earl-
dom, and that earldom in my hands becomes a
kingdom. By the reigning God it is true ; the
paltry earldom of Windsor shall no longer con-
tent him, who will inherit the rights which must
for ever appertain to the person who possesses it.
The Countess can never forget that she has
been a queen, and she disdains to leave a di-
minished inheritance to her children ; her power
and my wit will rebuild the throne, and this
brow will be clasped by a kingly diadem. — I can
do this — I can marry Idris."

He stopped abruptly, his countenance dark-
ened, and its expression changed again and
again under the influence of internal passion.
1 asked, " Does Lady Idris love you ?''

" What a question," replied he laughing.
'' She will of course, as I shall her, when we
are married."

" You begin late," said I, ironically, '*' mar-

THF LAST MAN. 107

iage is usually considered the grave, and not
the cradle of love. So you are about to love
her, but do not already .?"

" Do not catechise me, Lionel ; I will do my
duty by her, be assured. Love I I must steel
my heart against that ; expel it from its tower
of strength, barricade it out : the fountain of
love must cease to play, its waters be dried up,
and all passionate thoughts attendant on it die —
that is to say, the love which would rule me, not
that which I rule. Idris is a gentle, pretty, sweet
little girl ; it is impossible not to have an affec-
tion for her, and I have a very sincere one ;
only do not speak of love — love, the tyrant and
the tyrant-queller ; love, until now my con-
queror, now my slave ; the hungry fire, the

untameable beast, the fanged snake no —

no — -I will have nothing to do with that love.
Tell me, Lionel, do you consent that I should
marry this young lady ?"

He bent his keen eyes upon me, and my un-
controllable heart swelled in my bosom. I re-

108 THE LAST MAN.

plied in a calm voice — but how far from calm
was the thought imaged by my still Avords —
" Never ! I can never consent that Ladv Idris
should be united to one vvho does not love her.'*
" Because you love her yourself."
" Your Lordship might have spared that
taunt ; I do not, dare not love her."

" At least," he continued haughtily, " she
does not love you. I would not marry a
reigning sovereign, were I not sure that her
heart was free. But, O, Lionel ! a kingdom is
a word of might, and gently sounding are the
terms that compose the style of royalty. Were
not the mightiest men of the olden times kings ?
Alexander was a king ; Solomon, the wisest of
men, w^as a king ; Napoleon was a king ; Caesar
died in his attempt to become one, and Cromwell,
the puritan and king-killer, aspired to regality.
The father of Adrian yielded up the already
broken sceptre of England ; but I will rear the
fallen plant, join its dismembered frame, and
exalt it above all the flowers of the field.

The last MA^^ 109

" You need not -svonder that I freely disco-
ver Adrian's abode. Do not suppose that I am
wicked or foohsh enough to found my purposed
sovereignty on a fraud, and one so easily dis-
covered as the truth or falsehood of the Earl's
insanity. I am just come from him. Before
I decided on my marriage with Idris, I resolved to
see him myself again, and to judge of the proba^
bility of his recovery. — He is irrecoverably mad."

I gasped for breath —

" I will not detail to you,'' continued Ray-
mond, " the melancholy particulars. You shall
see him, and judge for yourself; although I fear
this visit, useless to him, will be insufferably
painful to you. It has weighed on my spirits
ever since. Excellent and gentle as he is even
in the downfall of his reason, I do not wor-
ship him as you do, but I would give all my
hopes of a crown and my right hand to boot, to
see him restored to himself."

His voice expressed the deepest compassion:
*' Thou most unaccountable being," I cried,

110 THE LAST MAK.

" whither will thy actions tend, in all this maze
of purpose in which thou seemest lost?"

" Whither indeed ? To a crown, a golden be-
gemmed crown, I hope ; and yet I dare not trust
and though I dream of a crown and wake for
one, ever and anon a busy devil whispers to me,
that it is but a fool's cap that I seek, and that
were I wise, I should trample on it, and take
in its stead, that which is worth all the crowns
of the east and presidentships of the west."

" And what is that ?''

" If I do make it my choice, then you shall
know ; at present I dare not speak, even think
of it."

Again he was silent, and after a pause turned
to me laughingly. When scorn did not inspire
his mirth, when it was genuine gaiety that
painted his features with a joyous expression,
his beauty became super-eminent, divine.
" Verney," said he, " my first act when I be-
come King of England, will be to unite with
the Greeks, take Constantinople, and subdue

THE LAST MAN. Ill

all Asia. I intend to be a warrior, a conqueror ;
Napoleon's name shall vail to mine ; and en-
thusiasts, instead of visiting his rocky grave,
and exalting the merits of the fallen, shall
adore my majesty, and magnify my illustrious
achievements."

I listened to Raymond with intense interest.
Could I be other than all ear, to one who seemed
to govern the whole earth in his grasping ima-
gination, and v.ho only quailed when he at-
tempted to rule himself. Then on his word
and will depended my own happiness — the fate
of all dear to me. I endeavoured to divine the
concealed meaning of his words. Perdita's
name was not mentioned ; yet I could not doubt
that love for her caused the vacillation of pur-
pose that he exhibited. And who was so
worthy of love as my noble-minded sister .'*
Who deserved the hand of this self-exalted
king more than she whose glance belonged to a
queen of nations ? who loved him, as he did her ;

112 THE LAST MAN.

notwithstanding that disappointment quelled her
passion, and ambition held strong combat with
his.

We went together to the House in the even-
ing Raymond, while he knew that his plans
and prospects were to be discussed and decided
during the expected debate, was gay and care-
less. An hum, like that of ten thousand hives
of swarming bees, stunned us as we entered the
coffee-room. Knots of politicians were assem-
bled with anxious brows and loud or deep
voices. The aristocratical party, the richest and
most influential men in England, appeared less
agitated than the others, for the question was
to be discussed without their interference.
Near the fire was Ryland and his supporters.
Ryland was a man of obscure birth and of im-
mense wealth, inherited from his father, who
had been a manufacturer. He had witnessed,
when a young man, the abdication of the king,
and the amalgamation of the two houses of

THE LAST MAN. US

Lords and Commons; he had sympathized
with these popular encroachments, and it had
been the business of his life to consolidate and
encrease them. Since then, the influence of the
landed proprietors had augmented ; and at first
Ryland was not sorry to observe the machina-
tions of Lord Raymond, which drew off many
of his opponent's partizans. But the thing was
now going too far. The poorer nobility hailed
the return of sovereignty, as an event which
would restore them to their power and rights,
now lost. The half extinct spirit of royalty
roused itself in the minds of men ; and they,
willing slaves, self-constituted subjects, were
ready to bend their necks to the yoke. Some
erect and manly spirits still remained, pillars
of state ; but the word republic had grown stale
to the vulgar ear; and many— the event would
prove whether it was a majority — pined for the
tinsel and show of royalty. Ryland was roused
to resistance; he asserted that his sufferance

]J4 THE LAST MAN.

alone had permitted the encrease of this party ;
but the time for indulgence was passed, and
with one motion of his arm he would sweep
away the cobwebs that blinded his countrymen.
When Raymond entered the coiFee-room, his
presence was hailed by his friends almost with a
shout. They gathered round him, counted
their numbers, and detailed the reasons why
they were now to receive an addition of such
and such members, who had not yet declared
themselves. Some trifling business of the House
having been gone through, the leaders took
their seats in the chamber; the clamour of
voices continued, till Ryland arose to speak, and
then the slightest whispered observation was
audible. All eyes were fixed upon him as he
stood — ponderous of frame, sonorous of voice,
and with a manner which, though not graceful,
was impressive. I turned from his marked, iron
countenance to Raymond, whose face, veiled by
a smile, would not betray his care ; yet his lips

THE LAST MAN. 115

quivered somewhat, and his liand clasped the
bench on which he sat, with a convulsive
strength that made the muscles start again.

Ryland began by praising the present state
of the British empire. He recalled past years
to their memory ; the miserable contentions
which in the time of our fathers arose almost to
civil war, the abdication of the late king, and
the foundation of the republic. He described
this republic ; shewed how it gave privilege to
each individual in the state, to rise to conse-
quence, and even to temporary sovereignty.
He compared the royal and republican spirit ;
shewed how the one tended to enslave the minds
of men ; while all the institutions of the other
served to raise even the meanest among us to
something great and good. He shewed how
England had become poAverful, and its inhabi-
tants valiant and wise, by means of the freedom
they enjoyed. As he spoke, every heart swelled
with pride, and every cheek glowed with delight
to remember, that each one there was Enghsh,

116 THE LAST MA-Nf.

and that each supported and contributed to the
happy state of things now commemorated.
Ryland's fervour increased — his eyes Hghted
up — his voice assumed the tone of passion.
There was one man, he continued^ who wished
to alter all this, and bring us back to our days
of impotence and contention: — one man, who
would dare arrogate the Iionour which was due
to all who claimed England as their birthplace,
and set his name and style above the name and
style of his country. I saw at this juncture
that Raymond changed colour ; his eyes were
withdrawn from the orator, and cast on the
ground; the listeners turned from one to the
other ; but in the meantime the speaker's voice
filled their ears — the thunder of his denuncia-
tions influenced their senses. The very bold-
ness of his language gave him weight ; each
knew that he spoke truth — a truth known, but
not acknowledged. He tore from reaHty the
mask with v\ hich she had been clothed ; and
the purposes of Raymond, Avhich before had

THE LAST MAN. 117

crept around, ensnaring by stealth, now stood
a hunted stag — even at bay— as all perceived
who watched the irrepressible changes of his
countenance. Ryland ended by moving, that
any attempt to re-erect the kingly power should
be declared treason, and he a traitor who should
endeavour to change the present form of govern-
ment. Cheers and loud acclamations followed
the close of his speech.

After his motion had been seconded, Lord
Raymond rose, — his countenance bland, his
voice softly melodious, his manner soothing, his
grace and sweetness came like the mild breath-
ing of a ilute, after the loud, organ-like voice of
his adversary. He rose, he said, to speak in
favour of the honourable member's motion, with
cue slight amendment subjoined. He was ready
to go back to old times, and commemorate the
contests of our fathers, and the monarch's ab-
dication. Nobly and greatly, he said, had the
illustrious and last sovereign of England sacri-
ficed himself to the apparent good of his coun-

118 THE LAST MAN.

try, and divested himself of a power which could
only be maintained by the blood of his subjects
— these subjects named so no more, these, his
friends and equals, had in gratitude conferred
certain favours and distinctions on him and his
family for ever. An ample estate was allotted
to them, and they took the first rank among the
peers of Great Britain. Yet it might be con-
jectured that they had not forgotten their an-
cient heritaoje ; and it was hard that his heir
slioiild suffer alike with any other pretender, if
he attempted to regain what by ancient right
and inheritance belonged to him. He did not
say that he should favour such an attempt ; but
he did say that such an attempt would be venial;
and, if the aspirant did not go so far as to de-
clare w^ar, and erect a standard in the kingdom,
his fault ought to be regarded with an indulgent
eye. In his amendment he proposed, that an
exception should be made in the bill in favour
of any person who claimed the sovereign power
in rio'ht of the earls of Windsor.

THE LAST MAN. 119

Nor did Raymond make an end without
drawino; in vivid and glowing colours, the splen-
dour of a kingdom, in opposition to the com-
mercial spirit of republicanism. He asserted,
that each individual under the English mo-
narchy, Avas then as now, capable of attaining
high rank and power — with one only exception,
that of the function of chief magistrate ; higher
and nobler rank, than a bartering, timorous
commonwealth could afford. And for this one
exception, to what did it amount ? The nature
of riches and influence forcibly confined the
list of candidates to a few of the wealthiest ; and
it was much to be feared, that the ill-humour
and contention generated by this triennial
struggle, would counterbalance its advantages
in impartial eyes. I can ill record the flow of
language and graceful turns of expression, the
wit and easy raillery that gave vigour and in-
fluence to his speech. His manner, timid at
first, became firm — his chano^eful face was lit

1£0 THE LAST MAN.

up to superhuman brilliancy ; his voice, various
as music, was like that enchanting.

It were useless to record the debate that
followed this harangue. Party speeches were
delivered, which clothed the^question in cant,
and veiled its simple meaning in a woven wind
of words. The motion was lost ; Ryland with-
drew in rage and despair ; and Raymond, gay
and exulting, retired to dream of his future
Kingdom,

THE LAST MAN. 121

CHAPTER IV.

Is there such a feehng as love at first sight ?
And if there be, in what does its nature differ
from love founded ; in long observation and slow-
growth ? Perhaps its effects are not so perma-
nent ; but they are, while they last, as violent
and intense. We walk the pathless mazes of
society, vacant of joy, till we hold this clue,
leading us through that labyrinth to paradise.
Our nature dim, like to an unlighted torch,
sleeps in formless blank till the fire attain it ;
this life of life, this light to moon, and glory
to the sun. What does it matter, whether the

VOL. I. G

12£ THE LAST MAN.

fire be struck from flint and steel, nourished
with care into a flame, slowly communicated to
the dark wick, or whether swiftly the radiant
power of hght and warmth passes from a kin-
dred power, and shines at once the beacon and
the hope. In the deepest fountain of my heart
the pulses were stirred ; around, above, be-
neath, the clinging Memory as a cloak enwrapt
me. In no one moment of coming time did
I feel as I had done in time gone by. The spirit
of Idris hovered in the air I breathed ; her eyes
were ever and for ever bent on mine ; her remem-
bered smile blinded my faint gaze, and caused
me to walk as one, not in eclipse, not in dark-
ness and vacancy — but in a new and brilliant
light, too novel, too dazzling for my human
senses. On every leaf, on every small division
of the universe, (as on the hyacinth a^ is eii-
graved) was imprinted the talisman of my ex-
istence— She lives ! She is ! — I had not tim«
yet to analyze my feeling, to take myself to task,

THE LAST MAX, 12

^n{}i kasK in the tameless passion ; all was one
idea, one feeling, one knowledge — it was my
life!

But the die was cast — Raymond would marry
Idris. The merry marriage bells rung in my
ears ; I heard the nation^s gratulation which fol-
lowed the vniion ; the ambitious noble uprose
with swift eagle-flight, from the lowly ground to
regal supremacy — and to the love of Idris. Yet,
not so ! She did not love him ; she had called
me her friend ; she had smiled on me ; to me she
had entrusted her hearf s dearest hope, the wel-
fare of Adrian. This reflection thawed my
congealing blood, and again the tide of life and
iove flowed impetuously onward, again to ebb
as my busy thoughts changed.

The debate had ended at three in the morning.
My soul was in tumults ; I traversed the streets
\"v ith eager rapidity. Truly, I was mad that night
— love — which I have named a giant from its
birth, wrestled with despair ! My heart, the field
of combat, was wounded by the iron heel of the
g2

1^4 THE LAST MAX.

one, watered by the gushing tears of the other.
Day, hateful to me, dawned ; I retreated to my
lodgings — I threw myself on a couch — 1 slept —
was it sleep ? — for thought was still alive — love
and despair struggled still, and I writhed with
vmendurable pain.

I aw^oke half stupefied ; I felt a heavy op-
pression on me, but knew not wherefore ; I en-
tered, as it were, the council-chamber of my
brain, and questioned the various ministers of
thought therein assembled ; too soon I remem-
bered all ; too soon my limbs quivered beneath
the tormenting power ; soon, too soon, I knew
myself a slave !

Suddenly, unannounced. Lord Raymond en-
tered my apartment. He came in gaily, singing
the Tyrolese song of liberty ; noticed me with
a gracious nod, and threw himself on a sopha
opposite the copy of a bust of the Apollo Bel-
videre. After one or two trivial remarks, to
which I sullenly replied, he suddenly cried,
looking at the bust, " I am called like that

THE LAST MAX. 125

Tictor ! Not a bad idea ; the head will serve
for my new coinage, and be an omen to all
dutiful subjects of my future success.''

He said this in his most gay, yet benevolent
manner, and smiled, not disdainfully, but in
playful mockery of himself Then his coun-
tenance suddenly darkened, and in that shrill
tone pecuhar to himself, he cried, " I fought a
good battle last night ; higher conquest the
plains of Greece never saw me achieve. Now
I am the first man in the state, burthen of every
ballad, and object of old women's mumbled de-
votions. What are your meditations ? You,
who fancy that you can read the human soul,
as your native lake reads each crevice and fold-
ing of its surrounding hills — say what you think
of me ; king-expectant, angel or devil, which ?"

This ironical tone was discord to my burst-
ing, over-boiling-heart; I was nettled by his
insolence, and replied with bitterness ; " There
is a spirit, neither angel or devil, damned to
limbo merely. " I saw his cheeks become pale,

136 THE LAST MAN,

and his lips whiten and quiver ; bis anger
served but to enkindle mine, and I answered
with a determined look his eyes which glared
on me; suddenly they were withdrawn, cast
do\^Ti, a tear, I thought, wetted the dark
lashes ; I was softened, and w^th involuntary-
emotion added, " Not that you are such, my
dear lord."

I paused, e\en awed by the agitation he
evinced ; '' Yes,'** he said at length, rising and
biting his lip, as he strove to curb his passion ;
^' Such am 1 ! You do not know me, Verney ;
neither you, nor our audience of last night, nor
does universal England know aught of me. I
stand here, it would seem, an elected king ; this
hand is about to grasp a sceptre ; these brows
feel in each nerve the coming diadem. I ap-
pear to have strength, power, victory ; standing
as a dome-supporting column stands ; and I am
— a reed ! I have ambition, and that attains
its aim ; my nightly dreams are realized, my
waking hopes fulfilled ; a kingdom awaits my

THE LAST MAX. 127

acceptance, my enemies are overthrown. But
here,*" and he struck his heart with violence,
" here is the rebel, here the stumbling-block ;
this over-ruling heart, which I may drain of
its living blood ; but, while one fluttering pulsa-
tion remains, I am its slave.""

He spoke with a broken voice, then bowed
his head, and, hiding his face in his hands,
wept I was still smarting from my own dis-
appointment ; yet this scene oppressed me even
to terror, nor could I interrupt his access of
passion. It subsided at length ; and, throw ing
himself on the couch, he remained silent and
motionless, except that his changeful features
shewed a strong internal conflict. At last he
rose, and said in his usual tone of voice, " The
time grows on us, Verney, I must away. Let
me not forget my chiefest errand here. Will
you accompany me to Windsor to-morrow ?
You will not be dishonoured by my society,
and as this is probably the last service, or dis-

128 THE LAST MAN.

service you can do me, will you grant my
request ?'"

He held out his hand with almost a bashful
air. Swiftly I thought — Yes, I will witness
the last scene of the drama. Beside which,
his mien conquered me, and an affectionate sen-
timent towards him, again filled my heart — I
bade him command me. " Aye, that I will,""
said he gaily, " thafs my cue now ; be with me
to-morrow morning by seven ; be secret and faith-
ful ; and you shall be groom of the stole ere long."

So saying^ he hastened away, vaulted on his
horse, and with a gesture as if he gave me his
hand to kiss, bade me another laughing adieu.
Left to myself, I strove with painful intensity
to divine the motive of his request, and foresee
the events of the coming day. The hours passed
on unperceived ; my head ached with thought^
the nerves seemed teeming with the over full
fraught— I clasped my burning brow, as if my
fevered hand could medicine its pain.

THE LAST MAN. 129.

I was punctual to the appointed hour on the
following day, and found Lord Raymond wait-
ing for me. We got into his carriage, and
proceeded towards Windsor. I had tutored
myself, and was resolved by no outward sign
to disclose my internal agitation.

" What a mistake Ryland made," said Ray-
mond, " when he thought to overpow^er me the
other night. He spoke well, very well ; such an
harangue would have succeeded better addressed
to me singly, than to the fools and knaves assem-
bled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have lis-
tened to him with a wish to hear reason, but
when he endeavoured to vanquish me in my own
territory, with my own weapons, he put me on
my mettle, and the event was such as all might
have expected."

I smiled incredulously, and replied : ^'' I am
of Ryland's way of thinking, and will, if you
please, repeat all his arguments ; we shall see
how far you will be induced by them, to change
the royal for the patriotic style "
G 3

130 THE LAST MA7i,

*' The repetition would be useless," said Ray-
mond, " since I well remember them, and have
many others, self-suggested, which speak with
unanswerable persuasion.*^

He did not explain himself, nor did I make
any remark on his reply. Our silence endured
for some miles, till the country with open fields,
or shady woods and parks, presented pleasant
objects to our view. After some observations
on the scenery and seats, Raymond said : " Phi-
losophers have called man a microco&m of nature,
and find a reflection in the internal mind foi* all
this machinery visibly at work ai'ound us. This
theory has often been a source of amusement to
me ; and many an idle hour have I spent, exercis-
ing my ingenuity in finding resemblances. Does
not Lord Bacon say that, ' the falling from a
discord to a concord, which maketh great sweet-
ness in music, hath an agreement with the affec-
tions, which are re-integrated to the better iifter
some disHkes ?** What a sea is the tide of pas-
sion, whose fountains are in our own nature!

THE LAST MAN. 131

Our virtues are the quick-sands, which shew
themselves at cahii and low water ; but let the
waves arise and the winds buffet them, and the
poor devil whose hope was in their durability,
finds them sink from under him. The fashions
of the world, its exigencies, educations and pur-
suits, are winds to drive our wills, like clouds
all one way ; but let a thunderstorm arise in the
shape of love, hate, or ambition, and the rack
goes backward, stemming the opposing air in
triumph.'"

*' Yet,"" replied I, " nature always presents to
our eyes the appearance of a patient: while
there is an active principle in man which is
capable of ruling fortune, and at least of tack-
ing against the gale, till it in some mode con-
quers it.""

" There is more of what is specious than
true in your distinction," said my compa-
nion. " Did we form ourselves, choosing our
dispositions, and our powers? I find myself,
for one, as a stringed instrument with chords

132 THE LAST MAX.

and stops — but I have no power to turn the
pegs, or pitch my thoughts to a higher or
lower key."

" Other men," I observed, " may be better
musicians."

" I talk not of others, but myself,"*' replied
Raymond, " and I am as fair an example to go
by as another. I cannot set my heart to a particu-
lar tune, or run voluntary changes on my will.
We are born ; we choose neither our parents,
nor our stations ; we are educated by others,
or by the world's circumstance, and this cultiva-
tion, mingling with our innate disposition, is the
soil in which our desires, passions, and motives
grow."

" There is much truth in what you say,"
said I, " and yet no man ever acts upon this
theory. Who, when he makes a choice, says.
Thus 1 choose, because I am necessitated ? Does
he not on the contrary feel a freedom of will
within him, which, though you may call it fal-
lacious, still actuates him as he decides V"

IHE LAST MAN. 183

" Exactly so," replied Raymond, " anodier
link of the breakless chain. AVere I now to
commit an act which would annihilate my hopes,
and pluck the regal garment from my mortal
limbs, to clothe them in ordinary weeds, would
this, think you, be an act of free-will on my
part ?"

As we talked thus, I perceived that we were
not going the ordinary road to Windsor, but
through Englefield Green, towards Bishopgate
Heath. I be^an to divine that Idris was not
the object of our journey, but that I was
brought to witness the scene that was to decide
the fate of Raymond — and of Perdita. Ray-
mond had evidently vacillated during his jour-
ney, and irresolution was marked in every ges-
ture as we entered Perdita's cottage. I watched
him curiously, determined that, if this hesitation
should continue, I would assist Perdita to over-
come herself, and teach her to disdain the waver-
ing love of him, who balanced between the
possession of a crown, and of her, whose excel-

134 THE LAST MAN.

ience and affection transcended the worth of a
kingdom.

We found her in her flower-adorned alcove ;
she was reading the newspaper report of the
debate in parhament, that apparently doomed
her to hopelessness. That heart-sinking feel-
ing was painted in her sunk eyes and spiritless
attitude ; a cloud was on her beauty, and fre-
quent sighs were tokens of her distress. This
sight had an instantaneous effect on Raymond ;
his eyes beamed with tenderness, and remorse
clothed his manners with earnestness and truth.
He sat beside her ; and, taking the paper from
her hand, said, " Not a word more shall my
sweet Perdita read of this contention of mad-
men and fools. I must not permit you to be
acquainted with the extent of my delusion, lest
you despise me ; although, believe me, a Avish
to appear before you, not vanquished, but as
a conqueror; inspired me during my wordy
war.""

Perdita looked at him like one amazed ; her

THE LAST MAX.

135

expressive countenance shone for a moment
%vith tenderness ; to see him only was happiness.
But a bitter tliought swiftly shadowed her
jov ; she bent her eyes on the ground, en-
deavouring to master the passion of tears that
threatened to overwhelm her. Raymond con-
tinued, " I will not act a part with you, dear
girl, or appear other than what 1 am, weak and
unworthy, more fit to excite your disdain than
your love. Yet you do love me ; I feel and
know that you do, and thence I draw my most
cherished hopes. If pride guided you, or even
reason, you might well reject me. Do so ; if
your high heart, incapable of my infirmity of
purpose, refuses to bend to the lowness of mine.
Turn from me, if you will, — if you can. If your
whole soul does not urge you to forgive me —
if your entire heart does not open wide its door
to admit me to its very centre, forsake me,
never speak to me again. I, though sinning
against you almost beyond remission, I also

136 THE LAST MAK.

am proud ; there must be no reserve in your
pardon — no drawback to the gift of your affec-
tion.''

Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased.
My presence embarrassed her ; so that she dared
not turn to meet her lover's eye, or trust her
voice to assure him of her affection ; while a
blush mantled her cheek, and her disconsolate
air was exchanged for one expressive of deep-
felt joy. Raymond encircled her waist with his
arm, and continued, " I do not deny that I have
balanced between you and the highest hope tliat
mortal man can entertain ; but I do so no longer.
Take me — mould me to your will, possess my
heart and «oul to all eternity. If you refuse tb
contribute to my happiness, I quit England to-
night, and will never set foot in it again.

" Lionel, you hear : witness for me : persuade
your sister to forgive the injury I have done
her; persuade her to be mine."

*' There needs no persuasion," said the blush-

THE LAST MAN. l^fj^

ing Perdita, •' except your own dear promises,
and my ready heart, which whispers to me that
they are true."

That same evening we all three walked to-
gether in the forest, and, with the garrulity
which happiness inspires, they detailed to me
the history of their loves. It was pleasant to
see the haughty Raymond and reserved Perdita
changed through happy love into prattling, play-
ful children, both losing their characteristic
dignity in the fulness of mutual contentment.
A night or two ago Lord Raymond, with a brow
of care, and a heart oppressed with thought, bent
all his energies to silence or persuade the legislators
of England that a sceptre was not too weighty
for his hand, while visions of dominion, war,
and triumph floated before him ; now, frolicsome
as a lively boy sporting under his mother's ap-
proving eye, the hopes of his ambition were
complete, when he pressed, the small fair hand of
Perdita to his lips ; while she, radiant with de-
light, looked on the still pool, not truly admiring

138 THE LAST MAN.

herself, but drinking in with rapture the reflection
there made of the form of herself and her lover,
shewn for the first time in dear conjunction.

I rambled awaj from them. If the rapture
of assured sympathy was theirs, I enjoyed that
of restored hope. I looked on the regal towers
of Windsor. High is the wall and strong the
barrier that separate me from my St^r of
Beauty. But not impassable. She will not be
his. A few more years dwell in thy native gar-
den, sweet flower, till I by toil and time acquire
a right to gather thee. Despair not, nor bid
me despair I What must I do now ? First I
must seek Adrian, and restore him to her.
Patience, gentleness, and untired affection, shall
recal him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that
he is mad ; energy and courage shall rescue
him, if he be unjustly imprisoned.

After the lovers again joined me, we supped
togetlier in the alcove. Truly it was a fairy's
supper; for though the air was perfumed by
the scent of fruits and wine, we none of us

THE LAST MAN. 139

either ate or drank — even the beauty of the
night was unobserved ; their extasy could not
be increased by outward objects, and I was
wrapt in reverie. At about midnight Raymond
and I took leave of my sister, to return to town.
He was all gaiety ; scraps of songs fell from his
lips ; every thought of his mind — every object
about us, gleamed under the sunshine of his
mirth. He accused me of melancholy, of ill-
humour and envy.

" Not so," said I, " though I confess that
my thoughts are not occupied as pleasantly as
yours are. You promised to facilitate my visit
to Adrian; I conjure you to perform your pro-
mise. I cannot linger here ; I long to soothe —
perhaps to cure the malady of my first and best
friend. I shall immediately depart for Dunkeld."
" Thou bird of night,"' replied Raymond,
•' what an echpse do you throw across my bright
thoughts, forcing me to call to mind that melan-
choly ruin, which stands in mental desolation,
more irreparable than a fragment of a can-ed

140 THE LAST MAX.

column in a weed-grown field. You dream that
you can restore him? Daedalus never wound
so inextricable an error round Minotaur, as
madness has woven about his imprisoned rea-
son. Nor you, nor any other Theseus, can
thread the labyrinth, to which perhaps some
unkind Ariadne has the clue."

" You allude to Evadne Zaimi : but she is
not in England."

" And were she," said Raymond, " I would
not advise her seeing him. Better to decay in
absolute delirium, than to be the victim of the
methodical unreason of ill-bestowed love. The
long duration of his malady has probably erased
from his mind all vestige of her; and it were
well that it should never again be imprinted.
You will find him at Dunkeld ; gentle and
tractable he wanders up the hills, and through
the wood, or sits listening beside the waterfall.
You may see him — his hair stuck with wild
flowers — his eyes full of untraceable meaning —
his voice broken — his person wasted to a ^ha-

THE LAST MAK. 141

dow. He plucks flowers and weeds, and weaves
chaplets of them, or sails yellow leaves and bits
of bark on the stream, rejoicing in their safety,
or weeping at their wreck. The very memory
half unmans me. By Heaven ! the first tears I
have shed since boyhood rushed scalding into
my eyes when I saw him.*"

It needed not this last account to spur me on
to visit him. I only doubted whether or not I
should endeavour to see Idris again, before I de-
parted. This doubt was decided on the follow-
ing day. Early in the morning Raymond came
to me ; intelHgence had arrived that Adrian
was dangerously ill, and it appeared impossible
that his failing strength should surmount the
disorder. " To-morrow," said Raymond, ^' his
mother and sister set out for Scotland to see
him once again."

"And I go to-day," I cried; "this verv
hour I will engage a sailing balloon ; I shall be
there in forty-eight hours at furthest, perhaps
in less, if the wind is fair. Farewell, Ray-

14S THE LAST MAK.

mond; be happy in having chosen the better
part in Hfe. This turn of fortune revives me.
I feared madness, not sickness — •! have a pre-
sentiment that Adrian will not die ; perhaps
this illness is a crisis, and he may recover.*"

Everything favoured my journey. The bal-
loon rose about half a mile from the earth, and
with a favourable wind it hurried through the
air, its feathered vans cleaving the unopposing
atmosphere. Notwithstanding the melancholy
object of my journey, my spirits were exhilarated
by reviving hope, by the swift motion of the
airy pinnace, and the balmy visitation of the
sunny air. The pilot hardly moved the plumed
steerage, and the slender mechanism of the
wings, wide unfurled^ gave forth a murmuring
noise, soothing to the sense. Plain and hill,
stream and corn-field, were discernible below,
while we unimpeded sped on swift and secure,
as a wild swan in his spring-tide flight. The
machine obeyed the slightest motion of the helm;
and, the wind bloAving steadily, there was no let

THE LAST MAN. ] 4S

or obstacle to our course. Such was the power
of man over the elements ; a power long sought,
and lately won ; yet foretold in by-gone time by
the prince of poets, whose verses I quoted much
to the astonishment of my pilot, when I told him
how many hundred years ago they had been
written : —

Oh ! human wit, thou can'st invent much ill.
Thou searchest strange arts : who would think by skill.
An heavy man like a light bird should stray.
And through the empty heavens find a way >

I alighted at Perth ; and, though much fa-
tigued by a constant exposure to the air for
many hours, I would not rest, but merely al-
tering my mode of conveyance, I went by land
instead of air, to Dunkeld. The sun was rising
as I entered the opening of the hills. After the
revolution of ages Birnam hill was again co-
vered with a young forest, while more aged
pines, planted at the very commencement of the
nineteenth century by the then Duke of Athol,
gave solemnity and beauty to the scene. The

144 THE LAST MA\'.

rising sun first tinged the pine tops ; and my
mind, rendered through my mountain educa-
tion deeply susceptible of the graces of nature,
and now on the eve of again beholding my be-
loved and perhaps dying friend, was strangely
influenced by the sight of those distant beams" :
surely they were ominous, and as such I re-
garded them, good omens for Adrian, on whose
life my happiness depended.

Poor fellow ! he lay stretched on a bed of
sickness, his cheeks glowing with the hues of
fever, his eyes half closed, his breath irre-
gular and difficult. Yet it was less painful to
see him thus, than to find him fulfilling the
animal functions uninterruptedly, his mind sick
the while. I established myself at his bedside ;
I never quitted it day or night. Bitter task
was it, to behold his spirit waver between deatli
and life : to see his warm cheek, and know that
the very fire which burned too fiercely there, was
consuming the vital fuel ; to hear his moaning
voice, which might never again articulate words

THE LAST MAX. 145

of love and wisdom ; to witness the ineffectual
motions of his limbs, soon to be wrapt in their
mortal shroud. Such for three days and nights
appeared the consummation which fate had
decreed for my labours, and I became haggard
and spectre-like, through anxiety and watching.
At length his eyes unclosed faintl}-, yet with a
look of returning life ; he became pale and
weak ; but the rigidity of his features was
softened by approaching convalescence. He knew
me. What a brimful cup of joyful agony it
was, when his face first gleamed with the glance
of recognition — Nvhen he pressed my hand, now
more fevered than his own, and when he pro-
nounced my name i No trace of his past in-
sanity remained, to dash my joy with sorrow.

This same evening his mother and sister
arrived. The Countess of Windsor was bv
nature full of energetic feel in o; ; but she had
very seldom in her life permitted the concen^
trated emotions of her heart to shew themselves
on her features. The studied immovability of

VOL. I. H

J 46 THE LAST MAN.

her countenance ; her slow, equable manner,
and soft but unmelodious voice, were a mask, hid-
ing her fiery passions, and the impatience of her
disposition. She did not in the least resemble
either of her children ; her black and spaikling
eye, lit up by pride, was totally unlike the
blue lustre, and frank, benignant expression of
either Adrian or Idris. There was something
grand and majestic in her motions, but nothing
persuasive, nothing amiable. Tall, thin, and
strait, her face still handsome, her raven hair
hardly tinged with grey, her forehead arched and
beautiful, had not the eye-brows been somewhat
scattered— it was impossible not to be struck by
lier, almost to fear her. Idris appeared to be
the only being who could resist her mother,
notwithstanding the extreme mildness of her
character. But there was a fearlessness and
frankness about her, which said that she would
not encroach on another's liberty, but held her
own sacred and unassailable.

The Countess cast no look of kindness on my

THE LAST MAN. ^^*
WOril-ULit ii«.ww, o- - ■■ ' '^ ^'"^*^

me coldly for my attentions. Not so Idris ; her
first glance was for her brother; she took his
hand, she kissed his eye-lids, and hung over him
with looks of compassion and love. Her eyes glis-
tened with tears when she thanked me, and the
grace of her expressions was enhanced, not
diminished, by the fervour, which caused her
almost to falter as she spoke. Ker mother,
all eyes and ears, soon interrupted us ; and I
saw, that she wished to dismiss me quietlj^, as
one whose services, now that his relatives had
arrived, were of no use to her son. I was
harassed and ill, resolved not to give up my
post, yet doubting in what way I should assert
it ; when Adrian called me, and clasping my
hand, bade me not leave him. His mother,
apparently inattentive, at once understood what
was meant, and seeing the hold we had upon
her, yielded the point to us.

The days that followed were full of pain to
me ; so that I sometimes regretted that I had
H 2

■^^^ THE LAST MAN.

watched all my motions, and turned my beloved
task of nursing my friend to a work of pain
and irritation. Never did any woman appear
so entirely made of mind, as the Countess of
Windsor. Her passions had subdued her appe-
tites, even lier natural wants ; she slept little,
and hardly ate at all ; her body was evidently
considered by her as. a mere m.achine, whose
health was necessary for the accomplishment
of her schemes, but whose senses formed no
part of her enjoyment. There is something
fearful in one who can thus conquer the animal
part of our nature, if the victory be not the
effect of consummate virtue ; nor was it without
a mixture of this feeling, that I beheld the figure
of the Countess awake when others slept, fasting
when I, a*bstemious naturally, and rendered
so by the fever that preyed on me, was
forced to recruit myself with food. She resolv-
ed to prevent or diminish my opportunities of
acquiring influence over her children, and cir-

THE LAST MAX. 149

cumvented my plans by a hard, quiet, stubborn
resolution, that seemed not to belong to flesh
and blood. War was at last tacitly acknow-
ledged between us. We had many pitched
battles, during which no vvord was spoken,
hardly a look was interchang*ed, but in which
cadi resolved not to submit to the other. The
Countess had the advantage of position ; so I
was vanquished, though I would not yield.

I became sick at heart. IVIy countenance was
painted with the hues of ill health and vexa-
tion. Adrian and Idris saw this; they attri-
buted it to my long watching and anxiety ; they
urged me to rest, and take care of myself, while
I most truly assured them, that my best medicine
was their good wishes; those, and the assured con-
valescence of my friend, now daily more apparent.
The faint rose again blushed on his cheek ; his
brow and lips lost the ashy paleness of threat-
ened dissolution ; such was the dear reward of
my unremitting attention — and bounteous hea-

150 THE LAST MAN.

ven added overflowing recompence, when it gave
me also the thanks and smiles of Idris.

After the lapse of a few weeks, we left Dun-
keld. Idris and her mother returned imme-
diately to Windsor, while Adrian and I followed
by slow journies and frequent stoppages, occa-
sioned by his continued weakness. As we tra-
versed the various counties of fertile England,
all wore an exhilirating appearance to my com-
panion, who had been so long secluded by dis-
ease from the enjoyments of weather and
scenery. We passed through busy towns and
cultivated plains. The husbandmen Avere getting
in their plenteous harvests, and the women and
children, occupied by light rustic toils, formed
groupes of happy, healthful persons, the very
sight of whom carried cheerfulness to the heart.
One evening, quitting our inn, we strolled down
a shady lane, then up a grassy slope, till we
came to an eminence, that commanded an ex-
tensive view of hill and dale, meandering rivers.

THE LAST MAN'. 15%

dark woods, and shining villages. The sun
was setting ; and the clouds, straying, like new-
shorn sheep, through the vast fields of sky, re-
ceived the golden colour of his parting beams ;
the distant uplands shone out, and the busy-
hum of evening came, harmonized by distance,
on our ear. Adrian, who felt all the fresh
spirit infused by returning health, clasped his
hands in delight, and exclaimed with transport :

** O happy earth, and happy inhabitants of
earth ! A stately palace has God built for you,
O man ! and worthy are you of your dwelling !
Beliold the verdant carpet spread at our feet,
and the azure canopy above; the fields of earth
which generate and nurture all things, and the
track of heaven, which contains and clasps all
things. Now, at this evening hour, at the pe-
riod of repose and refection, metliinks all hearts
breathe one hymn of love and thanksgiving, and
we, like priests of old on the mountain-tops, give
a voice to their sentiment.

** Assuredly a most benignant power built

152 THE LAST MAN,

up the majestic fabric we inhabit, and
framed the laws by which it endures. If
mere existence, and not happiness, had been
the final end of our being, what need of the
profuse luxuries which we enjoy ? Why should
our dwelling place be so lovely, and why should
the instincts of nature minister pleasurable sen-
sations? The very sustaining of our animal
machine is made delightful ; and our suste-
nance, the fruits of the field, is painted with
ti'anscendant hues, endued with grateful odours,
and palatable to our taste. Why should this
be, if HE were not good ? We need houses to
protect us from the seasons, and behold the
materials with which we are provided ; the
growth of trees with their adornment of
leaves ; while rocks of stone piled above the
plains variegate the prospect with their pleasant
irregularity.

'' Nor are outward objects alone the re-
ceptacles of the Spirit of Good. Look into the
mind of man, where wisdom reigns enthroned ^

THE LAST MAN. 15^

xrhere imagination, the painter, sits, with his
pencil dipt in hues lovelier than those of sun-
set, adorning familiar life with glowing tints.
What a noble boon, worthy the giver, is the
imagination ! it takes from reahty its leaden
hue : it envelopes all thought and sensation in
a radiant veil, and with an hand of beauty
beckons us from the sterile seas of life, to her
gardens, and bowers, and glades of bliss. And
is not love a gift of the divinity ? Love, and
her cliild, Hope, which can bestow wealth on
poverty, strength on the weak, and happiness
on the sorrowing.

" My lot has not been fortunate. I have
consorted long with grief, entered the gloomy
labyrinth of madness, and emerged, but half
alive. Yet I thank God that I have lived ! I
thank God, that I have beheld his throne, the
heavens, and earth, his footstool. I am glad
that I have seen the changes of his day ; to
behold the sun, fountain of light, and the
gentle pilgrim moon ; to have seen the fire
H 3

154 THE LAST MAN".

bearing flowers cf the sky, and the flowery
fetars of earth ; to have witnessed the sowing
and the harvest. I am glad that I have loved,
and have experienced sympathetic joy and sorro\T
widi my fellow-creatures. I am glad nov/ to feel
the current of thought flow through my mind,
as the blood through the articulations of my
frame ; mere existence is pleasure ; and I thank
God that I live !

" And all ye happy nurslings of mother-
earth, do ye not echo my w ords ? Ye who are
linked by the aff*ectionate ties of nature ; com-
panions, friends, lovers ! fathers, who toil with
joy for their offspring ; women, who while
gazing on the living forms of their children,
forget the pains of maternity ; children, who
neither toil nor spin, but love and are loved !

" Oh, that death and sickness were banished
from our earthly home ! that hatred, tyranny,
and fear could no longer make their lair in the
human heart ! that each man might find a
brother in his fellow, and a nest of repose

THE LAST MAN. 155

amid the wide plains of his inheritance ! that
the source of tears were dry, and that hp$
might no longer form expressions of sorrow.
Sleeping thus under the beneficent eye of
heaven, can evil visit thee, O Earth, or grief
cradle to their graves thy luckless children ?
Whisper it not, lest the daemons hear and re-
joice ! The choice is with us ; let us will it,
and our habitation becomes a paradise. For
the will of man is omnipotent, blunting the
arrows of death, soothing the bed of disease,
and wiping away the tears of agony. And
what is each human being worth, if he do not
put forth his strength to aid his fellow-crea-
tures ? My soul is a fading spark, my nature
frail as a spent wave ; but I dedicate all of in-
tellect and strength that remains to me, to that
one work, and take upon me the task, as far as
I am able, of bestowing blessings on my fellow-
men !^'

His voice trembled, his eyes were cast up,

156 THE LAST MAN.

his hands clasped, and his fragile person was
bent, as it were, with excess of emotion. The
spirit of life seemed to linger in his form, as a
dying flame on an altar flickers on the embers
of an accepted sacrifice.

THE LAST MAX. 157

CHAPTER V,

When we arrived at Windsor, I found that
Raymond and Perdita had departed for the
continent. I took possession of my sister's
cottage, and blessed myself that I lived within
view of Windsor Castle. It was a curious fact,
that at this period, when by the marriage of
Perdita I was allied to one of the richest indi-
viduals in England, and w^as bound by the most
intimate friendship to its chiefest noble, I expe-
rienced the greatest excess of poverty that I had
ever known. My knowledge of the worldly
principles of Lord Raymond, would have ever
prevented me from applying to him, however
deep my distress might have been. It was in

158 THE LAST MAN.

vain that I repeated to myself with regard to
Adrian, that his purse was open to me ; that one
in soul, as we were, our fortunes ought also to
be common. I could never, while with him,
think of his bounty as a remedy to my poverty ;
and I even put aside hastily his offers of sup-
plies, assuring him of a falsehood, that I needed
them not. How could I say to this generous
being, '' Maintain me in idleness. You who
have dedicated your powers of mind and for-
tune to the benefit of your species, shall you
so misdirect your exertions, as to support in
uselessness the strong, healthy, and capable ?""*

And yet I dared not request him to use his
influence that I might obtain an honourable
provision for myself— for then I should have
been obliged to leave Windsor. I hovered for
ever around the walls of its Castle, beneath its
enshadowing thickets ; my sole companions were
my books and my loving thoughts. I studied
the Tfisdom of the ancients, and gazed on the
happy walls that sheltered the beloved of my soul.

THE LAST MAN. 159

My mind was nevertheless idle. I pored over
the poetry of old times; I studied the metaphysics
of Plato and Berkley. I read the histories of
Greece and Rome, and of England's former pe-
riods, and I watched the movements of the lady
of my heart. At night I could see her shadow
on the walls of her apartment ; by day I viewed
her in her flower-garden, or riding in the park
with her usual companions. Methought the
charm would be broken if I were seen, but I
heard the music of her voice and was happy. I
gave to each heroine of whom I read, her beauty
and matchless excellences — such was Antigone,
when she guided the blind CEdipus to the grove
of the Eumenides, and discharged the funeral
rites of Polynices ; such was Miranda in the un-
visited cave of Prospero ; such Haidee, on the
sands of the Ionian island. I was mad with excess
of passionate devotion ; but pride, tameless as
fire, invested my nature, and prevented me from
betraying myself by word or look.

In the mean time, while I thus pampered my-

IGO The last ma.k.

self with rich mental repasts, a peasant would
have disdained my scanty fare, which 1 sometimes
robbed from the squirrels of the forest. I was, I
own, often tempted to recur to the lawless feats of
my boj-hood, and knock down the almost tame
pheasants that perched upon the trees, and^bent
their bright eyes on me. But they were the
property of Adrian, the nurslings of Idris ;
and so, although my imagination rendered sen-
sual by privation, made me think that they
would better become the spit in my kitchen,
than the green leaves of the forest,

Nathelesse,
I checked my haughty will, and did not eat ;

but supped upon sentiment, and dreamt vainly
of " such morsels sweet," as I might not waking
attain.

But, at this period, the whole scheme of my
existence was about to change. The orphan
and neglected son of Verney, was on the eve of
being linked to the inechanism of society by a

THE LAST MAN. 161

golden chain, and to enter into all the duties
and affections of life. Miracles were to be
wrought in my favour, the machine of social
life pushed with vast effort backward. At-
tend, O reader ! while 1 narrate this tale of
wonders !

One day as Adrian and Idris were riding
through the forest, with their mother and ac-
custonied companions, Idris, drawing her bro-
ther aside from the rest of the cavalcade^ sud-
denly asked him, " What had become of his
friend, Lionel Verney ?'"*

'' Even from this spot," replied Adrian,
pointing to my sister's cottage, " you can see
his dwelling."

*' Indeed !" said Idris, " and why, if he be
so near, does he not come to see us, and make
one of our society ?"

" I often visit him," rephed Adrian ; " but
you may easily guess the motives, which prevent
him from coming where his presence may annoy
any one among us J*

162 THE LAST MAN.

" I do guess them," said Idris, " and such as
they are, I would not venture to combat them.
Tell me, however, in what way he passes his
time ; what he is doinfic and thinking in his cot-
tage retreat ?"

" Nay, my sweet sister," replied Adrian,
" you ask me more than I can well answer ; but
if you feel interest in him, why not visit him ?
He will feel highly honoured, and thus you may
repay a part of the obligation T owe him, and
compensate for the injuries fortune has done
him."

" 1 will most readily accompany you to his
abode,**' said the lady, " not that I wish that
either of us should unburdien ourselves of our
debt, which, being no less than your life, must
remain unpayable ever. But let us go ; to-
morrow we will arrange to ride out together,
and proceeding towards that part of the forest,
call upon him."

The next evening therefore, though the
autumnal change had brought on cold and rain.

THE LAST MAN. 16S

Adrian and Idris entered my cottage. They
found me Curius-like, feasting on sorry fruits
for supper ; but they brought gifts richer than
the golden bribes of the Sabines, nor could I
refuse the invaluable store of friendship and
delight which they bestowed. Surely the glo-
rious twins of Latona were not more welcome,
when, in the infancy of the world, they were
brought forth to beautify and enlighten this
" sterile promontory,"" than were this angelic
pair to my lowly dwelling and grateful heart.
We sat like one family round my hearth.
Our talk was on subjects, unconnected with the
emotions that evidently occupied each ; but
we each divined the other's thought, and as our
voices spoke of indifferent matters, our eyes, in
mute language, told a thousand things no
tongue could have uttered.

They left me in an hour^s time. They left
me happy — how unspeakably iiappy. It did
not require the measured sounds of human
language to syllable the story of my extasy.
Idris had visited me ; Idris I should again and

164.

THE LAST MAN.

again see— my imagination did not wander
beyond the completeness of this knowledge.
I trod air ; no doubt, no fear, no hope even,
disturbed me ; I clasped with my soul the ful-
ness of contentment, satisfied, undesiring, bea-
tified.

For many days Adi'ian and Idris continued
to visit me thus. In this dear intercourse, love,
in tlie guise of enthusiastic friendship, infused
more and more of his omnipotent spirit. Idris
felt it. Yes, divinity of the world, I read your
characters in her looks and gesture ; I heard
your melodious voice echoed by her — you pre-
pai'ed for us a soft and flowery path, all gentle
thoughts adorned it — your name, O Love, was
not spoken, but you stood the Genius of the
Hour, veiled, and time, but no mortal hand,
might raise the curtain. Organs of articu-
late sound did not proclaim the union of our
hearts ; for untoward circumstance allowed no
opportunity for the expression that hovered on
our lips.

_.xx. LAST MAX. 165

Oh my pen ! haste thou to write what was,
before the thought of what is, arrests the hand
that guides thee. If I hft up my eyes and see
the desart earth, and feel that those dear eyes
have spent their mortal lustre, and that tliose
beauteous lips are silent, their " crimson leaves'*
faded, for ever I am mute !

But yovi live, my Idris, even now you move
before "me I There was a glade, O reader [ a
grassy opening in the wood ; the retiring trees
left its velvet expanse as a temple for love ; the
silver Thames bounded it on one side, and a
willow bending down dipt in the water its Naiad
hair, dishevelled by the wind's viewless hand.
The oaks around were the home of a tribe of
nightingales — there am I now ; Idris, in youth's
dear prime, is by my side — remember, I am just
twenty-two, and seventeen summers have scarce-
ly passed over the beloved of my heart. The
river swollen by autumnal rains, deluged the
low lands, and Adrian in his favourite boat is
employed in the dangerous pastime of plucking

166 THE LAST MAN.

the topmost bough from a submerged oak.
Are you weary of life, O Adrian, that you thus
play with danger? —

He has obtained his prize, and he pilots his
boat through the flood ; our eyes were fixed on
liim fearfully, but the stream carried him away
from us ; he was forced to land far lower down,
and to make a considerable circuit before he could
join us. ^' He is safe !"" said Idris, as he leapt
on shore, and waved the bough over his head in
token of success ; " we will wait for him here."

We were alone together ; the sun had set ;
the song of the nightingales began ; the evening
star shone distinct in the flood of light, which was
yet unfaded in the west. The blue eyes of my
angelic girl were fixed on this sweet emblem of
herself : " How the light palpitates," she said,
" which is that star's life. Its vacillating eff'ul-.
gence seems to say that its state, even like ours
upon earth, is wavering and inconstant ; it fears,
metlidnks, and it loves.'

•■' Gaze not on the star, dear, generous frieiid,"

THE LAST MAN. 167

I cried, " read not love in Us trembling rajs ;
look not upon distant worlds ; speak not of the
mere imagination of a sentiment. I have long
been silent ; long even to sickness have I
desired to speak to you, and submit my soul,
my hfe, my entire being to you. Look not on
the star, dear love, or do, and let that eternal
spark plead for me ; let it be my witness and
my advocate, silent as it shines — love is to me
as light to the star ; even so long as that is un-
echpsed by annihilation, so long shall I love you."

Veiled for ever to the world's callous eye
must be the transport of that moment. Still
do I feel her graceful form press against my
full-fraught heart — still does sight, and pulse,
and breath sicken and fail, at the remembrancd
of that first kiss. Slowly and silentlv we went
to meet Adrian, whom we heard approaching.

I entreated Adrian to return to me after he
had conducted his sister home. And that same
evening, walking among the moon-lit forest
paths, I poured forth my whole heart, its tran-

168 THE LAST MAX.

sport and its hope, to my friend. For a moment
he looked disturbed — " I might have foreseen
this," he said, '' what strife will now ensue !
Pardon me, Lionel, nor wonder that the expec-
tation of contest with my mother should jar
me, wlien else I should delightedly confess that
my best hopes are fulfilled, in confiding my
sister to your protection. If you do not already
know it, you will soon learn the deep hate my
mother bears to the name of Verney. I will
converse with Idris; then all that a friend can
do, I w^ll do ; to her it must belong to play
the lover's part, if she be capable of it."

While the brother and sister were still hesi-
tating in what manner they could best attempt
to bring their mother over to their party, she,
suspecting our meetings, taxed her children
w ith them ; taxed her fair daughter with deceit,
and an unbecoming attachment for one whose
only merit was being the son of the profligate
favourite of her imprudent father ; and who was
doubtless as worthless as he from whom he

THE LAST MAN. 169

boasted his descent. The eyes of Idris flashed
at this accusation ; she repHed, " I do not deny
that I love Verney ; prove to me that he is
worthless; and I will never see him more.'"*

*' Dear Madam,"' said Adrian, " let me en-
treat you to see him, to cultivate his friendship.
You will wonder then, as I do, at the extent of
his accomplishments, and the brilliancy of his
talents.'- (Pardon me, gentle reader, this is
not futile vanity ;• — not futile, since to know
that Adrian felt thus, brings joy even now to
my lone heart).

" Mad and foolish boy !'' exclaimed the angry
lady, " you have chosen with dreams and theo-
ries to overthrow my schemes for your own
aggrandizement ; but you shall not do the same
by those I have formed for your sister. I but
too well understand the fascination you both
labour under; since I had the same struggle
with your father, to make him cast off the parent
of this youth, who hid his evil propensities with
the smoothness and subtlety of a viper. In

VOL. I. 1

170 THE LAST MAN.

those days how often did 1 hear of his attrac-
tions, his wide spread conquests, his wit,
his refined manners. It is well when flies only
are caught by such spiders'* webs ; but is it for
the high-born and powerful to bow their necks
to the flimsy yoke of these unmeaning pre-
tensions ? Were your sister indeed the insig-
nificant person she deserves to be, I would
willingly leave her to the fate, the wretched
fate, of the M'ife of a man, whose very person,
resembling as it does his wretched father, ought
to remind you of the folly and vice it typifies —
but remember, Lady Idris, it is not alone the
once royal blood of England that colours your
veins, you are a Princess of Austria, and every
life-drop is akin to emperors and kings. Are
you then a fit mate for an uneducated shepherd-
boy, whose only inheritance is his father's tar-
nished name?"

" I can make but one defence,"* replied Idris,
" the same offered by my brother; see Lionel,
converse with my shepherd-boy"'*

THE LAST MAX. 171

The Countess interrupted hpr indignantly —
" Yours !'"' — she cried : and then, smoothing
her impassioned features to a disdainful smile,
she continued — " We will talk of this another
time. All I now ask, all your mother, Idris,
requests is, that you will not see this upstart
during the interval of one month."

" I dare not comply,"" said Idris, " it would
pain him too much. I have no right to play
with his feelings, to accept his proffered love, and
then sting him with neglect.*'

" This is going too far,'** her mother an-
swered, with quivering lips, and eyes again
instinct by anger.

" Nay, Madam,''' said Adrian, " unle.'^s m.y
sister consent never to see him again, it is surely
an useless torment to separate them for a month."

" Certainly ,'' replied the ex-queen, with bit-
ter scorn, " his love, and her love, and both
their childish flutterings, are to be put in fit
comparison with my years of hope and anxiety,
i2

17^ THK LAST MAN.

with the duties of the offspring of kings, with
the high and dignified conduct which one of
her descent ought to pursue. But it is un-
woi'thy of me to argue and complain. Perhaps
you will have the goodness to promise me not
to marry during that interval? '

This was asked only half ironically ; and Idris
wondered why her mother should extort from
her a solemn vow not to do, what she had never
dreamed of doing — but the promise was required
and given.

All went on cheerfully now ; we met as usual,
and talked without dread of our future plans.
The Countess was so gentle, and even beyond
her wont, amiable with her children, that they
began to entertain hopes of her ultimate con-
sent. She was too unlike them, too utterly ali^n
to their tastes, for them to find delight in her so-
ciety, or ill ihe prospect of its continuance, but
it gave them pleasure to see her conciliating and
kind. Once even, Adrian ventured to propose

THE LAST MAy. 1 73

her receiving me. She refused with a smile,
reminding him that for the present his sister had
promised to be patient.

One day, after the lapse of nearly a month,
Adrian received a letter from a friend in Lon-
don, requesting his immediate presence for the
furdierance of some important object. Guileless
himself, Adrian feared no deceit. I rode with
him as far as Staines : he was in high spirits ;
and, since I could not see Idris during his ab-
sence, he promised a speedy return. His
gaiety, which was extreme, had the strange
effect of awakening in me contrary feelings ;
a presentiment of evil hung over me ; I loitered
on my return ; I counted the hours that must
elapse before I saw Idris again. Wherefore
should this be ? What evil might not happen
in the mean time ? Might not her mother take
advantage of Adrian's absence to urge her be-
yond her sufferance, perhaps to entrap her ? I
resolved, let what would befall, to see and con-
verse with her the following day. This deter-

174 THE LAST MAN.

mination soothed me. To-morrow, loveliest and
best, hope and joy of my life, to-morrow I will
see thee — Fool, to dream of a moment's delay ?

I went to rest. At past midnight I was
awaked by a violent knocking. It was now
deep winter ; it had snowed, and was still
snowing ; the wind whistled in the leafless
trees, despoiling them of the white flakes as
they fell ; its drear moaning, and the continued
knocking, mingled wildly with my dreams — at
length I was wide awake; hastily dressing my-
self, I hurried to discover the cause of this
disturbance, and to open my door to the un-
expected visitor. Pale as the snow that
showered about her, with clasped hands, Idris
stood before me. " Save me !"*' she exclaimed,
and would have sunk to the ground had I
not supported her. In a moment however
she revived, and, with energy, almost with vio-
lence, entreated me to saddle horses, to take
her away, away to London — to her brother —
at least to save her. I had no horses — she

THE LAST SI AS. 175

wrurg her hands. *' What can I do ?'^ she
cried, " I am lost — \ve are both for ever lost !
But come— come MJth me, Lionel; here I
must not stay, — we can get a chaise at the
nearest post-house ; vet perhaps we have time!
— come, O come with me to save and protect
me !"

When I heard her piteous demands, while
with disordered dress, dishevelled hair, and
aghast looks, she wrung her hands — the idea
shot across me — is she also mad? — "Sweet
one,"' and I folded her to my heart, *' better
repose than wander further ; — rest— my beloved,
I will make a fire — you are chill.""

" Rest !" she cried, " repose ! you rave,
Lionel ! If you delay we are lost ; come, I
pray you, unless you would cast me off for
ever.*'

That Idris, the princely bom,nurshng of wealth
and luxury, should have come through the
tempestuous winter-night from her regal abode,
and standing at my lowly door, conjure ire to fly

176 THE LAST MAN.

with her through darkness and storm— was surely
a dream — again her plaintive tones, the sight of
her lovehness assured me that it was no vision.
Looking timidly around, as if she feared to be
overheard, she whispered : " I have discovered
— to-morrow — that is, to-day — already the to-
morrow is come— before dawn, foreigners, Aus-
trian s, my mother's hirelings, are to carry me
ofF to Germany, to pi'ison, to marriage — to
anything, except you and my brother— take
me away, or soon they will be here !'

I was frightened by her vehemence, and ima-
gined some mistake in her incoherent tale ; but
I no longer hesitated to o^^ey her. She had
come by herself from the Castle, three long
miles, at midnight, through the heavy snow;
we must reach Englefield Green, a mile and
a half further, before we could obtain a chaise-
She told me, that she had kept up her strength
and courage till her arrival at my cottage, and then
botli failed. Now she could hardly walk. Sup-
porting her as I did, still she lagged : and at the

THE LAST MAN. 177

distance of half a mile, after many stoppages,
shivering fits, and half fain tings, she slipt from
my supporting arm on the snow, and with a
torrent of tears averred that she must be taken,
for that she could not proceed. I lifted her up
in my arms ; her light form rested on my breast.
— I felt no burthen, except the internal one of
contrary and contending emotions. Brimming
delight how invested me. Again her chill hmbs
touched me as a torpedo ; and I shuddered in
sympathy with her pain and fright. Her head
lay on my shoulder, her breath waved my hair,
her heart beat near mine, transport made me
tremble, blinded me, annihilated me — till a
suppressed groan, bursting from her lips, the
chattering of her teeth, which she strove vainly
to subdue, and all the signs of suffering she
evinced, recalled me to the necessity of speed
and succour. At last I said to her, " There is
Englefield Green ; there the inn. But, if you are
seen thus strangely circumstanced, dear Idris,
even now your enemies may learn your flight
i3

178 THE LAST MAN.

too soon : were it not better that I hired the
chaise alone ? I will put you in safety mean-
while, and return to you immediately."

She answered that I was right, and might do
with her as I pleased. I observed the door of a
small out^house a-jar. I pushed it open ; and,
with some hay strewed about, I formed a couch
for her, placing her exhausted frame on it, and
covering her with my cloak. I feared to leave her,
she looked so w^an and faint — but in a moment
she re-acquired animation, and, with that, fear ;
and again she implored me not to delay. To call
up the people of the inn, and obtain a convey-
ance and horses, even though I harnessed them
myself, was the work of many minutes ; minutes,
each freighted with the weight of ages. I caused
the chaise to advance a little, waited till the
people of the inn had retired, and then made
the post-boy draw up the carriage to the spot
where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat reco-
vered, stood waiting for me. I lifted her into the
chaise ; I assured her that with our four horses we

THE LAST MAN. 179

should arrive in London before five o'clock, the
hour when she would be sought and missed. I
besought her to calm herself; a kindly shower
of tears relieved her, and by degrees she related
her tale of fear and peril.

That same night after Adrian's departure,
her mother had warmly expostulated with her on
the subject of her attachment to me. Every
motive, every threat, every angry taunt was
urcred in vain. She seemed to consider that

o

through me she had lost Raymond ; I was the
evil influence of her life ; I was even accused of
encreasing and confirming the mad and base
apostacy of Adrian from all views of advance-
ment and grandeur ; and now this miserable
mountaineer was to steal her daughter. Never,
Idris related, did the angry lady deign to recur
to gentleness and persuasion ; if she had, the task
of resistance would have been exquisitely pan-
ful. As it was, the sweet girPs generous nature
was roused to defend, and ally herself with, my
despised cause. Her mother ended with a look

180 THE LAST MA^.

of contempt and covert triumph, which for a
moment awakened the suspicions of Idris.
When they parted for the night, tlie Countess
said, " To-morrow I trust your tone will be
changed : be composed ; I have agitated you ;
go to rest; and I will send you a medicine I
always take when unduly restless — it will give
you a quiet night."

By the time that she had with uneasy thoughts
laid her fair cheek upon her pillow, her mother's
servant brought a draught ; a suspicion again
crossed her at this novel proceeding, sufficiently
alarming to determine her not to take the potion ;
but dislike of contention, and a wish to discover
whether there was any just foundation for her
conjectures, made her, she said, almost instinc-
tively, and in contradiction to her usual frank-
ness, pretend to swallow the medicine. Then,
agitated as she had been by her m others vio-
lence, and now by unaccustomed fears, she lay
unable to sleep, starting at every sound. Swon
her door opened softly, and on her springing

THE LAST MAN. 181

up, she heard a whisper, " Not asleep yet,'' and
the door again closed. With a beating heart
she expected another visit, and when after an
interval her chamber was again invaded, having
first assured herself that the intruders were her
mother a,nd an attendant, she composed herself
to feigned sleep. A step approached her bed,
she dared not move, she strove to calm her pal-
pitations, which became more violent, when she
heard her mother say mutteringly, '* Pretty
simpleton, little do you think that your game
is already at an end for ever."

For a moment the poor girl fancied that her
mother believed that she had drank poison :
she was on the point of springing up ; when the
Countess, already at a distance from the bed,
spoke in a ow voice to her companion, and
again Idris listened : " Hasten,"" said she,
" there is no time to lose — it is long past
eleven ; they will be here at five ; take merely
the clothes necessary for her journey, and her
jewel-casket.*"' The servant obeyed ; few words

182 THE LAST MAN.

were spoken on either side ; but those were
caught at with avidity by the intended victim.
She heard the name of her ovvn maid men-
tioned ; — '' No, no,*" replied her mother, " she
does not go with us; Lady Idris must forget
England, and all belonging to it.'"* And again
she heard, " She will not wake till late to-
morrow, and we shall then be at sea." ^' All

is ready ,""* at length the woman announced.
The Countess again came to her daughter's bed-
side : "In Austria at least," she said, " you
will obey. In Austria, where obedience can be
enforced, and no choice left but between an
honourable prison and a fitting marriage."

Both then withdrew ; though, as she went,
the Countess said, " Softly ; all sleep ; though
all have not been prepared for sleep, like her.
I would not have any one suspect, or she might
be roused to resistance, and perhaps escape.
Come with me to my room ; we will remain
there till the hour agreed upon.'* They went.
Idris, panic-struck, but animated and strength-

THE LAST ilAN. iHB

ened even by her excessive fear, dressed her-
self hurriedly, and going down a flight of
back-stairs, avoiding the vicinity of her mother'*s
apartment, she contrived to escape from the
castle by a low window, and came through
snow, wind, and obscurity to my cottage ; nor
h)st her courage, until she arrived, and, depositing
her fate in my hands, gave herself up to the
desperation and weariness that overwhelmed
her.

I comforted her as well as I might. Joy
and exultation, were mine, to possess, and to save
her. Yet not to excite fresh agitation in her,
" per non iurbar quel bel viso sereno^ I
curbed my delight. I strove to quiet the eager
dancing of my heart; I turned from her my
eyes, beaming with too much tenderness, and
proudly, to dark night, and the inclement at-
mosphere, murmured the expressions of my
transport. We reached London, methought,
all too soon ; and yet I could not regret our
speedy arrival, when I witnessed the extasy with

184 THE LAST MAN.

which my beloved girl found herself in her
brother's arms, safe from every evil, under his
unblamed protection.

Adrian wrote a brief note to his mother, in-
forming her that Idris was under his care and
guardianship. Several days elapsed, and at
last an answer came, dated from Cologne. "It
was useless," the haughty and disappointed
lady wrote, " for the Earl of Windsor and his
sister to address again the injured parent,
whose only expectation of tranquillity must be
derived from oblivion of their existence. Her
desires had been blasted, her schemes over-
throTVTi. She did not complain ; in her brother'^s
court she would find, not compensation for their
disobedience (fihal unkindness admitted of none),
but such a state of things and mode of life, as
mio-ht best reconcile her to her fate. Under

o

such circumstances, she positively declined any
communication with them."

Such were the strange and incredible events,
that finally brought about my union with the

THE LAST MAN. 185

sister of my best friend, with my adored Idris.
With simplicity and courage she set aside the
prejudices and opposition which were obstacles
to my happiness, nor scrupled to give her hand,
where she had given her heart. To be worthy
of her, to raise myself to her height through
the exertion of talents and virtue, to repay her
love with devoted, unwearied tenderness, were
the only thanks I could offer for the matchless
gift.

186 THE LAST MAN.

CHAPTER VI.

And now let the reader, passing over some
short period of time, be introduced to our happy
circle. Adrian, Idris and I, were established
in Windsor Castle ; Lord Raymond and my
sister, inhabited a house which the former
had built on the borders of the Great Park,
near Perdita's cottage, as was still named the low-
roofed abode, where we two, poor even in hope,
had each received the assurance of our felicity.
We had our separate occupations and our
common amusements. Sometimes we passed
whole days under the leafy covert of the forest
with our books and music. This occurred dur-
ing those rare days in this country, when the sun

THE LAST MAN. 187

mounts his etlierial throne in unclouded majesty,
and the ^vindless atmosphere is as a bath of pel-
lucid and grateful water, wrapping the senses in
tranquillity. When the clouds veiled the sky,
and the wind scattered them there and here,
rending their woof, and strewinoc its fraorments
through the aerial plains — then we rode out, and
sought new spots of beauty and repose. When
the frequent rains sliut us within doors, evening
recreation followed morning study, ushered in by
music and song. Idris had a natural musical
talent ; and her voice, which had been carefully
cultivated, was full and sweet. Raymond and
I made a part of the concert, and Adrian and
Perdita were devout listeners. Then we were
as gay as summer insects, playful as children;
we ever met one another with smiles, and read
content and joy in each other's countenances.
Our prime festivals were held in Perdita' s cot-
tage ; nor were we ever weary of talking of the
past or dreaming of the future. Jealousy and
disquiet were unknown among us ; nor did a

1S8 THE LAST MAN.

fear or hope of change ever disturb our tran-
quillity. Others said. We might be happy— we
said — We are.

When any separation toolc place between us,
it generally so happened, that Idris and Perdita
would ramble away together, and we remained
to discuss the affairs of nations, and the philo-
sophy of life. The very difference of our dispo-
sitions gave zest to these conversations. Adrian
had the superiority in learning and eloquence ;
but Raymond possessed a quick penetration, and
a practical knowledge of life, which usually
displayed itself in opposition to Adrian, and
thus kept up the ball of discussion. At other
times we made excursions of many days' dura-
tion, and crossed the country to visit any spot
noted, for beauty or historical association. Some-
times we went up to London, and entered into the
amusements of the busy throng ; sometimes our
retreat was invaded by visitors from among
them. This change made us only the more
sensible to the delights of the intimate inter-

THE LAST Mx\X. 189

course of our own circle, the tranquillity of our
divine forest, and our happy evenings in the
halls of our beloved Castle.

The disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank,
soft, and affectionate. Her temper was unalter-
ably sv^'eet ; and although firm and resolute on
any point that touched her heart, she was
yielding to those she loved. The nature of
Perdita was less perfect ; but tenderness and
happiness improved her temper, and softened
her natural reserve. Her understanding was
clear and comprehensive, her imagination vivid ;
she was sincere, generous, and reasonable.
Adrian, the matchless brother of my soul,
the sensitive and excellent Adrian, loving all,
and beloved by all, yet seemed destined not to
find the half of himself, which was to complete
his happiness. He often left us, and wandered
by himself in the woods, or sailed in his little
skiff', his books his only companions. He was
often the gayest of our party, at the same time
that he was the only one visited by fits of des-

190 THE LAST MAN.

pondency ; his slender frame seemed over-
charged with the weight of hfe, and his soul
appeared rather to inhabit his body than unite
with it. I was hardly more devoted to my
Idris than to her brother, and she loved him
as her teacher, her friend, the benefactor who
had secured to her the fulfilment of her dearest
wishes. Raymond, the ambitious, restless
Raymond, reposed midway on the great high-
road of life, and was content to give up all his
schemes of sovereignty and fame, to make one of
us, the flowers of the field. His kingdom was
the heart of Perdita, his subjects her thoughts ;
by her he was loved, respected as a superior
beins", obeyed, waited on. No office, no devo-
tion, no watching was irksome to her, as it I'e-
garded him. She would sit apart from us and
watch him ; she would weep for joy to think
that he was hers. She erected a temple for
him in the depth of her being, and each fa-
culty was a priestess vowed to his service.
Sometimes she might be wayward and capricious;

THE LAST MAX. 191

but lier repentance was Litter, her return en-
tire, and even this inequaUty of temper suited
liim who was not formed by nature to float idly
down the stream of life.

During the first year of their marriage,
Perdita presented Raymond with a lovely girl.
It w^as curious to trace in this miniature model
the very traits of its father. The same half-
disdainful lips and smile of triumph, the same
intelligent eyes, the same brow and chesnut
hair ; her very hands and taper fingers resembled
his. How very dear she was to Perdita ! In
progress of time, 1 also became a father, and
our little darlings, our playthings and delights,
called forth a thousand new and delicious
feelings.

Years passed thus, — even years. Each month
brought forth its successor, each year one like
to that gone by; truly, our lives were a living
comment on that beautiful sentiment of Plu-
tarch, that " our souls have a natural inclinji-
tion to love, being born as much to love, as to

19^ THE LAST MAN.

feel, to reason, to understand and remember.''*
We talked of change and active pursuits, but
still remained at Windsor, incapable of violating
the charm that attached us to our secluded
life.

Pareamo aver qui tutto il ben raccolto

Che fra mortali in piti parte si rimembra.

Now also that our children gave us occupation,
we found excuses for our idleness, in tlie idea of
bringing them up to a more splendid career. At
length our tranquillity was disturbed, and the
course of events, which for five years had flowed
on in hushing tranquillity, was broken by
breakers and obstacles, that woke us from our
pleasant dream.

A new Lord Protector of England was to be
chosen ; and, at Raymond's request, we removed
to London, to witness, and even take a part in
the election. If Raymond had been united to
Idris, this post had been his stepping-stone to
higher dignity ; and his desire for power and
fame had been crowned with fullest measure.

THE LAST MAN. 193

He had exchanged a sceptre for a kite, a king-
dom for Perdita.

Did he think of this as we journeyed up to
town? I watched him, but could make but
Httle of him. He was particularly gay, playing
with his child, and turning to sport every word
that was uttered. Perhaps he did this because
he saw a cloud upon Perdita's brow. She tried
to rouse herself, but her eyes every now and
then filled with tears, and she looked wistfully
on Raymond and her girl, as if fearful that
some evil would betide them. And so she felt.
A presentiment of ill hung over her. She
leaned from the window looking on the forest,
and the turrets of the Castle, and as these became
hid ■ by intervening objects, she passionately
exclaimed — " Scenes of happiness ! scenes sa-
cred to devoted love, when shall I see you again!
and when I see ye, shall I be still the beloved
and joyous Perdita, or shall I, heart-broken and
lost, wander among your groves, the ghost of
what I am !''

VOL. I. K

194 THE LAST MAN.

" Why, silly one," cried Raymond, " what
is your litlle head pondering upon, that of a
sudden you have become so sublimely dismal ?
Cheer up, or I shall make you over to Idris,
and call Adrian into the carriage, who, I see by
his gesture, sympathizes with my good spirits.''^

Adrian was on horseback ; he rode up to the
carriage, and his gaiety, in addition to that of
Raymond, dispelled my sister's melancholy.
We entered London in the evening, and went
to our several abodes near Hyde Park.

The following morning Lord Raymond vi-
sited me early. " I come to you,"*' he said,
" only half assured that you will assist me in
my project, but resolved to go through with it,
whether you concur with me or not. Promise
me secrecy however ; for if you will not contri-
bute to my success, at least you must not baffle
me."

" Well, I promise. And now "

" And now, my dear fellow, for what are we
come to London ? To be present at the election

THE' LAST MAN. 195

of a Protector, and to give our yea or nay for

his shuffling Grace of ? or for that

noisy Ryland ? Do you believe, Verney, that I
brought you to town for that ? No, we will have
a Protector of our own. We will set up a can-
didate, and ensure his success. We will nomi-
nate Adrian, and do our best to bestow on him
the power to which he is entitled by his birth,
and which he merits through his virtues.

" Do not answer; I know all your objections,
and will reply to them in order. First, Whe-
ther he will or will not consent to become a
great man ? Leave the task of persuasion on
that point to me ; I do not ask you to assist me
there. Secondly, Whether he ought to ex-
change his employment of plucking blackberries,
and nursing wounded partridges in the forest,
for the command of a nation ? My dear Lionel,
we are married men, and find employment
sufficient in amusing our wives, and dancing our
children. But Adrian is alone, wifeless, child-
less, unoccupied. I have long observed him.
K 2

19() THE LAST MAX

He pines for want of some interest m life.
His heart, exhausted by his early sufferings,
reposes like a new-healed limb, and shrinks from
all excitement. But his understanding, his cha-
rity, his virtues, want a field for exercise and
display ; and we will procure it for him. Be-
sides, is it not a shame, that the genius of Adrian
should fade from the earth like a flower in an
untrod mountain-path, fruitless .'' Do you think
Nature composed his surpassing machine for no
purpose ? Beheve me, he was destined to be the
autlior of infinite good to his native England.
Has she not bestowed on him every gift in pro-
digality ? — birth, wealth, talent, goodness ? Does
not every one love and admire him ? and does
he not delight singly in such efforts as manifest
his love to all ? Come, I see that you are al-
ready persuaded, and will second me when I
propose him to-night in parliament."

" You have got up all your arguments in
excellent order," I replied ; " and, if Adrian
consent, they are unanswerable. One onlv con-

THE LAST MAN. 197

dition I would make, — that you do nothing
without liis concurrence."

" I beh'eve you are in the right," said Ray-
mond; " although I had thought at first to
arrange the affair differently. Be it so. I will
go instantly to Adrian ; and, if he inclines to con-
sent, you u'ill not destroy my labour by per-
suading him to return, and turn squirrel again
in Windsor Forest. Idris, you will not act the
traitor towards me ?"

"^ Trust me," replied she, " I will preserve
a strict neutrality."

" For my part," said I, " I am too well con-
vinced of the worth of our friend, and the rich
harv'est of benefits that all England would reap
from his Protectorship, to deprive my coun-
trymen of such a blessing, if he consent to
Ijestow it on them.""

In the evening Adrian visited us. — '' Do you
cabal also against me," said he, laughing ; " and
will you make common cause with Raymond, in
dragging a poor visionary from the clouds to sur-

J^ THE LAST MAN

round him with the fire-works and blasts of
earthly grandeur, instead of heavenly rays and
airs ? I thought you knew me better."

" I do know you better," I replied " than to
think that you would be happy in such a situa-
tion ; but the good you would do to others may
be an inducement, since the time is probably
arrived when you can put your theories into
practice, and you may bring about such refor-
mation and change, as will conduce to that
perfect system of government which you delight
to portray."

'' You speak of an almost-forgotten dream,"
said Adrian, his countenance slightly clouding
as he spoke ; " the visions of my boyhood have
long since faded in the light of reality ; I know
now that I am not a man fitted to govern
nations ; sufficient for me, if I keep in whole-
some rule the little kingdom of my own mor-
tahty.

" But do not you see, Lionel, the drift of our
noble friend ; a drift, perhaps, unknown to him-

THE LAST MAN. 199

self, but apparent to me. Lord Raymond was
never born to be a drone in the hive, and to
find content in our pastoral life. He thinks,
that he ought to be satisfied ; he imagines, that
his present situation precludes the possibility of
aggrandisement ; he does not therefore, even
in his own heart, plan change for himself. But
do you not see, that, under the idea of exalting
me, he is chalking out a new path for himself;
a path of action from which he has long wan-
dered ?

" Let us assist him. He, the noble, the war-
like, the great in every quality that can adorn
the mind and person of man ; be is fitted to be
the Protector of England . If / — that is, if rre
propose him, he will assuredly be elected, and
will find, in the functions of that high office,
scope for the towering powers of his mind.
Even Perdita will rejoice. Perdita, in whom
ambition was a covered fire until she married
Ra}Tnond, which event was for a time the ful-
filment of her hopes ; Perdita vnW rejoice in the

200 THE LAST MAN.

glory and advancement of lier lord— and, coyly
and prettily, not be discontented with her share.
In the mean time, we, the wise of the land,
will return to our Castle, and, Cincinnatus-like,
take to our usual labours, until our friend shall
require our presence and assistance here.'"*

The more Adrian reasoned upon this scheme,
the more feasible it appeared. His own deter-
mination never to enter into public life was
insurmountable, and the delicacy of his health
was a sufficient argument against it. The next
step was to induce Raymond to confess his secret
wishes for dignity and fame. He entered while
we were speaking. The way in which Adrian
had received his project for setting him up as a
candidate for the Protectorship, and his replies,
had already awakened in his mind, the view of
the subject which we were now discussing. His
countenance and manner betrayed irresolution
and anxiety ; but the anxiety arose from a fear
that we should not prosecute, or not succeed in our
idea ; and his irresolution, from a doubt whether

THE LAST MAN. 201

we should risk a defeat. A few \Yords from us
decided him, and hope and joy sparkled in his
eyes ; the idea of embarking in a career, so con-
genial to his early habits and cherished wishes,
made him as before energetic and bold. We
discussed his chances, the merits of the other
candidates, and the dispositions of the voters.

After all we miscalculated. Raymond had
lost much of his popularity, and was deserted
by his peculiar partizans. Absence from the
busy stage had caused him to be forgotten by
the people ; his former parliamentary supporters
were principally composed of royalists, who had
been willing to make an idol of him when he
appeared as the heir of the Earldom of Wind-
sor ; but who were indifferent to him, when he
came forward with no other attributes and dis-
tinctions than they conceived to be common to
many among themselves. Still he had many
friends, admirers of his transcendent talents;
his presence in the house, his eloquence, address
and imposing beauty, were calculated to produce
K 3

202 THE LAST MAN.

an electric effect. Adrian also, notwithstanding
his recluse habits and theories, so adverse to the
spirit of party, had many friends, and they were
easily induced to vote for a candidate of his
selection.

The Duke of , and Mr. Ryland, Lord

Raymond's old antagonist, were the other candi-
dates. Tlie Duke was supported by all t)ie
aristocrats of the republic, who considered him
their proper representative. Ryland was the po-
pular candidate ; when Lord Raymond was first
added to the list, his chance of success appeared
small. We retired from the debate which had
followed on his nomination : we, his nominators,
mortified ; he dispirited to excess. Perdita re-
proached us bitterly. Her expectations had
been strongly excited; she had urged nothing
against our project, on the contrary, she was
evidently pleased by it ; but its evident ill
success changed the current of her ideas. She
felt, that, once awakened, Raymond would never
return unrepining to Windsor. His habits were

THE LAST MAN. 203

unliinged ; his restless mind roused from its sleep,
ambition must now be his companion through
life ; and if he did not succeed in his present
attempt, she foresaw that unhappiness and cure-
less discontent would follow. Perhaps her own
disappointment added a sting to her thoughts
and words ; she did not spare us, and our own
reflections added to our disquietude.

It was necessary to follow up our nomination,
and to persuade Raymond to present himself to
the electors on the following evening. For a
long time he was obstinate. He would embark
in a balloon ; he would sail for a distant quarter
of the world, where his name and humiliation
were unknown. But this was useless; his at-
tempt was registered ; his purpose published to
the world ; his shame could never be erased from
the memories of men. It was as well to fail at
last after a struggle, as to fly now at the be-
ginning of his enterprise.

From the moment that he adopted this idea,
he was changed. His depression and anxiety

204 THE LAST MA^".

fled; he became all life and activity. The
smile of triumph shone on his countenance ; de-
termined to pursue his object to the uttermost,
his manner and expression seem ominous of the
accomplishment of his wishes. Not so Perdita.
She was frightened by his gaiety, for she
dreaded a greater rerulsion at the end. If his
appearance even inspired us with hope, it only
rendered the state of her mind more painful.
She feared to lose sight of him ; yet she dreaded
to remark any change in the temper of his mind.
She listened eagerly to him, yet tantalized her-
self by giving to his words a meaning foreign to
their true interpretation, and adverse to lier
hopes. She dared not be present at the contest ;
yet she remained at home a prey to double soli-
citude. She wept over her little girl ; she
looked, she spoke, as if she dreaded the occur-
rence of some frightful calamity. She was half
mad from the effects of uncontrollable agitation.
Lord Raymond presented himself to the house
with fearless confidence and insinuating address.

THE LAST MAN. 205

After the Duke of and Mr. Ryland

had finished their speeches, he commenced.
Assuredly he had not conned his lesson ; and at
first he hesitated, pausing in his ideas, and in
the choice of his expressions. By degrees he
warmed ; his words flowed with ease, his lan-
guage was full of vigour, and his voice of persua-
sion. He reverted to his past life, his successes
in Greece, his favour at home. Why should
he lose this, now that added years, prudence,
and the pledge which his marriage gave to his
country, ought to encrease, rather than di-
minish his claims to confidence ? He spoke of
the state of England ; the necessary measures
to be taken to ensure its security, and confirm
its prosperity. He drew a glowing picture of
its present situation. As he spoke, every sound
was hushed, every thought suspended by in-
tense attention. His graceful elocution en-
chained the senses of his hearers. In some de-
gree also he was fitted to reconcile all parties.

206 THE LAST MAN.

His birth pleased the aristocracy ; his being the
candidate recommended by Adrian, a man inti-
mately allied to the popular party, caused a
number, who had no great reliance either on
the Duke or Mr. Ryland, to range on his side.

The contest was keen and doubtful. Neither
Adrian nor myself would have been so anxious, if
our own success had depended on our exertions ;
but we had egged our friend on to the enter-
prise, and it became us to ensure his triumph.
Idris, who entertained the highest opinion of
his abilities, was warmly interested in the event :
and my poor sister, who dared not hope, and to
whom fear was misery, was plunged into a fever
of disquietude.

Day after day passed while we discussed our
projects for the evening, and each night was oc-
cupied by debates which offered no conclusion.
At last the crisis came : the night when parlia-
ment, which had so long delayed its choice, must
decide : as the hour of twelve passed^ and the new

THE LAST MAN'. ^7

day began, it was by virtue of the constitution
dissolved, its power extinct.

We assembled at Raymond's house, we and
our partizans. At half pa^t five o'clock we
proceeded to the House. Idris endeavoured to
cahii Perdita; but the poor giil's agitation
deprived her of all power of self-command.
She walked up and down the room, — gazed
wildly when any one entered, fancving that
they might be the announcers of her doom.
I must do justice to my sweet sister: it was
not for herself that she was thus agonized.
She alone knew the weight which Raymond
attached to his success. Even to us he assumed
gaiety and hope, and assumed them so well,
that we did not divine the secret workings of
his mind. Sometimes a nervous trembling,
a sharp dissonance of voice, and momentary
fits of absence revealed to Perdita the \4olence
he did himself; but we, intent on our plans,
observed only his ready laugh, his joke intruded
on all occasions, the flow of his spirits which

208 THE LAST MAN,

seemed incapable of ebb. Besides, Perdita was
with him in his retirement; she saw the moodi-
ness that succeeded to this forced hilarity ;
she marked his disturbed sleep, his painful
irritability — once she had seen his tears — hers
had scarce ceased to flow, since she had beheld
the big drops which disappointed pride had
caused to gather in his eye, but which pride was
unable to dispel. What wonder then, that her
feelings were wrought to this pitch ! I thus
accounted to myself for her agitation ; but this
was not all, and the sequel revealed another
excuse.

One moment we seized before our departure,
to take leave of our beloved girls. I had small
hope of success, and entreated Idris to watch
over my sister. As I approached the latter,
she seized my hand, and drew me into another
apartment ; she threw herself into my arms, and
wept and sobbed bitterly and long. I tried to
soothe her ; 1 bade her hope ; I asked what tre-
mendous consequences would ensue even on our

THE LAST MAN. 209

failure. '• My brother," she cried, " protector
of my childhood, dear, most dear Lionel, my
fate hangs by a thread. I have you all about
me now — you, the companion of my infancy ;
Adrian, as dear to me as if bound by the ties of
blood ; Idris, the sister of my heart, and her
lovely offspring. This, O this may be the last
time that you will surround me thus !"

Abruptly she stopped, and then cried:
" What have I said ? — foolish false girl that I
am !"" She looked wildly on me, and then
suddenly calming herself, apologized for what
she called her unmeaning words, saying that
she must indeed be insane, for, while Raymond
lived, she must be happy ; and then, though she
still wept, she suffered me tranquilly to depart.
Raymond only took her hand when he went,
and looked on her expressively ; she answered
by a look of intelligence and assent.

Poor ffirl ! what she then suffered I I could

o

never entirely forgive Raymond for the trials
he imposed on her, occasioned as they were by

210 THE LAST MAN.

a selfish feeling on his part. He had schemed,
if he failed in his present attempt, without
taking leave of any of us, to embark for Greece,
and never again to revisit England. Perdita
acceded to his wishes ; for his contentment was
the chief object of her life, the crown of her
enjoyment; but to leave us all, her companions,
the beloved partners of her happiest years, and
in the interim to conceal this frightful determi-
nation, was a task that almost conquered her
strength of mind. She had been employed in
arranging for their departure ; she had pro-
mised Raymond during this decisive evening,
to take advantage of our absence, to go one
stage of the journey, and he, after his defeat
was ascertained, would shp away from us, and
join her.

Although, when I was informed of this scheme,
I was bitterly offended by the small attention
which Raymond paid to my sister's feehngs, I was
led by reflection to consider, that he acted imder
the force of such strong excitement, as to take

THE LAST MAN. 211

from him the consciousness, and, consequently,
the guilt of a fault. If he had permitted us to
witness his agitation, he would have been more
under the guidance of reason ; but his struggles
for the shew of composure, acted with such
violence on his nerves, as to destroy his power
of self-command. I am convinced that, at the
worst, he would have returned from the sea-
shore to take leave of us, and to make us the
partners of his council. But the task imposed
on Perdita was not the less painful. He had
extorted from her a vow of secrecy ; and her
part of the drama, since it was to be performed
alone, was the most agonizing that could be
devised. But to return to my narrative.

The debates had hitherto been long: and
loud ; they had often been protracted merely
for the sake of delay. But now each seemed
fearful lest the fatal moment should pass, while
the choice was yet undecided. Unwonted si-
lence reigned in the house, the members spoke
in whispers, and the ordinary business was

212 THE LAST MAN.

transacted with celerity and quietness. During
the first stage of the election, the "Duke of

had been thrown out ; the question

therefore lay between Lord Raymond and
Mr. Ryland. The latter had felt secure of
victory, until the appearance of Raymond; and,
since his name had been inserted as a candi-
date, he had canvassed with eagerness. He
had appeared each evening, impatience and
anger marked in his looks, scowling on us
from the opposite side of St. Stephen's, as if
his mere frown would cast eclipse on our
hopes.

Every thing in the Enghsh constitution had
been regulated for' the better preservation of
peace. On the last day, two candidates only
were allowed to remain ; and to obviate, if
possible, the last struggle between these, a bribe
was offered to him who should voluntarily resign
his pretensions ; a place of great emolviment and
honour was given him, and his success facilitated
at a future election. Strange to say however,

THE LAST MAN. 2J3 '

no instance had yet occurred, where either
candidate had had recourse to this expedient ;
in consequence the law had become obsolete,
nor had been referred to by any of us in our
discussions. To our extreme surprise, when
it was moved that we should resolve ourselves
into a committee for the election of the Lord
Protector, the member who had nominated
Ryland, rose and informed us that this candi-
date had resigned his pretensions. His infor-
mation was at first received with silence ; a
confused murmur succeeded; and, when the
chairman declared Lord Raymond duly chosen,
it amounted to a shout of applause and victory.
It seemed as if, far from any dread of defeat
even if ]Mr. Ryland had not resigned, every
voice would have been united in favour of our
candidate. In fact, now that the idea of con-
test was dismissed, all hearts returned to their
former respect and admiration of our accom-
plished friend. Each felt, that England had
never seen a Protector so capable of fulfilling

214 THE LAST MAN.

the arduous duties of that high office. One
voice made of many voices, resounded through
the chamber; it syllabled the name of Ray-
mond.

He entered. I was on one of the highest
seats, and saw him walk up the passage to the
table of the speaker. The native modesty of
his disposition conquered the joy of his triumph.
He looked round timidly ; a mist seemed before
his eyes. Adrian, who was beside me, has-
tened to him, and jumping down the benches,
was at his side in a moment. His appearance
re-animated our friend ; and, when he came to
speak and act, his hesitation vanished, and he
shone out supreme in majesty and victory. The
former Protector tendered him the oaths, and pre-
sented him with the insignia of office, performing
the ceremonies of installation. The house then
dissolved. The chief members of the state
crowded round the new magistrate, and con-
ducted him to the palace of government. Adrian
suddenly vanished ; and, by the time that Ray-

THE LAST MAN. 215

mond's supporters were reduced to our intimate
friends merely, returned leading Idris to con-
gratulate her friend on his success.

But where was Perdita? In securing soli-
citously an unobserved retreat in case of failure,
Raymond had forgotten to ari'ange the mode by
which she was to hear of his success ; and she
had been too much agitated to revert to this cir-
cumstance. When Idris entered, so far had Ray-
mond forgotten himself, that he asked for my
sister ; one word, which told of her mysterious
disappearance, recalled him. Adrian it is true
had already gone to seek the fugitive, imagining
that her tameless anxiety had led her to the pur-
lieus of the House, and that some sinister event
detained her. But Raymond, without explain-
ing himself, suddenly quitted us, and in another
moment we heard him gallop down the street,
in spite of the wind and rain that scattered tem-
pest over the earth. We did not know how far
he had to go, and soon separated, supposing
that in a short time he would return to the pa-

216 THE LAST MAN.

lace with Perdita, and that they would not be
sorry to find themselves alone.

Perdita had arrived with her child at Dar-
ford, weeping and inconsolable. She directed
every thing to be prepared for the continuance
of their journey, and placing her lovely sleep-
ing charge on a bed, passed several hours
in acute suffering. Sometimes she observed
the war of elements, thinking that they also
declared against her, and listened to the patter-
ing of the rain in gloomy despair. Sometimes
she hung over her child, tracing her resem-
blance to the father, and fearful lest in after
life she should display the same passions and
uncontrollable impulses, that rendered him un-
happy. Again, with a gush of pride and delight,
she marked in the features of her little girl,
the same smile of beauty that often irradiated
Raymond's countenance. The sight of it sooth-
ed her. She thought of the treasure she pos-
sessed in the affections of her lord ; of his
accomplishments, surpassing those of his con-

THE LAST MAN. S17

temporaries, his genius, his devotion to her. —
Soon she thought, that all she possessed in the
world, except him, might well be spared, nay,
given with delight, a propitiatory offering, to
secure the supreme good she retained in him.
Soon she imagined, that fate demanded this
sacrifice from her, as a mark she was de-
voted to Raymond, and that it must be made
with cheerfulness. She figured to herself their
life in the Greek isle he had selected for
their retreat; her task of soothing him; her
cares for the beauteous Clara, her rides in his
company, her dedication of herself to his conso-
lation. The picture then presented itself to her
in such glowing colours, that she feared the re-
verse, and a life of magnificence and power in
London ; where Raymond would no longer be
hers only, nor she the sole source of happiness
to him. So far as she merely was concerned,
she began to hope for defeat ; and it was only
on his account that her feehngs vacillated, as she
heard him gallop into the court-yard of the imi.

VOL. I. L

218 THE LAST MAN.

That he should come to her alone, wetted by
the storm, careless of every thing except speed,
what else could it mean, than that, vanquished
and solitary, they were to take their way from
native England, the scene of shame, and hide
themselves in the myrtle groves of the Grecian
isles ?

In a moment she was in his arms. The know-
ledge of his success had become so much a part
of himself, that he forgot that it was necessar}^
to impart it to his companion. She only felt in
his embrace a dear assurance that while he pos-
sessed her, he would not despair. '' This is kind,"
she cried ; "this is noble, my own beloved ! O
fear not disgrace or lowly fortune, while you
have your Perdita ; fear not sorrow, while our
child lives and smiles. Let us go even where
you will ; the love that accompanies us will pre-
vent our regrets."

Locked in his embrace, she spoke thus, and
cast back her head, seeking an assent to her
words in his eyes — they were sparkling with

THE LAST MAN. 219

ineffable delight. " "Why, my little Lady Pro-
tectress,'"'said he, playfully, "what is this you
say ? And what pretty scheme have you woven
of exile and obscurity, while a brighter web, a
gold-enwoven tissue, is that which, in truth, you
ought to contemplate ?''

He kissed her brow — but the wayward girl,
half sorry at his triumph, agitated by swift
change of tliought, hid her face in his bosom
and wept. He comforted her ; he instilled into
her his own hopes and desires ; and soon her
countenance beamed with sympathy. How very
happy were they that night ! Hoav full even
to bursting was their sense of joy '

L 2

S20 THE LAST MAN,

CHAPTER VII.

Having seen our friend properly installed in
his new office, we turned our eyes towards
Windsor. The nearness of this place to ton-
don was such, as to take away the idea of pain-
ful separation, when we quitted Raymond and
Perdita. We took leave of them in the Pro-
tector al Palace. It was pretty enough to see
my sister enter as it were into the spirit of the
drama, and endeavour to fill her station with
becoming dignity. Her internal pride and hu-
mility of manner were now more than ever at war.
Her timidity was not artificial, but arose from
that fear of not being properly appreciated, that
slight estimation of the neglect of the world.

THE LAST MAN\ 221

\vhich also characterized Raymond. But then
Perdita thought more constantly of others than
he ; and part of her bashfulness arose from a wish
to take from those around her a sense of infe-
riority ; a feehng which viever crossed her mind.
From the circumstances of her birth and educa-
tion, Jdris would have been better fitted for the
formulae of ceremony ; but the v ery ease which
accompanied such actions with her, arising from
habit, rendered them tedious ; while^ with every
drawback, Perdita evidently enjoyed her situa-
tion. She was too full of new ideas to feel much
pain when we departed ; she took an affectionate
leave of us, and promised to visit us soon ; but
she did not regret the circumstances that caused
our separation. The spirits of Raymond were
unbounded ; he did not know what to do with
his new got power ; his head was full of plans ;
he had as yet decided on none — but he pro-
mised himself, his friends, and the world, that
the aera of his Protectorship should be signa-
lized by some act of surpassing glory.

%%% THE LAST MAN.

Thus, we talked of them, and moralized, as
with diminished numbers we returned to Wind-
sor Castle. We felt extreme delight at our
escape from political turmoil, and sought our
solitude with redoubled zest. We did not want
for occupation ; but my eager disposition was
now turned to the field of intellectual exertion
only ; and hard study I found to be an excellent
medicine to allay a fever of spirit vath which in
indolence, I should doubtless have been assailed.
Perdita had permitted us to take Clara back
with us to Windsor ; and she and my two lovely
infants were perpetual sources of interest and
amusement.

; The only circumstance that disturbed our
peace, was the health of Adrian. It evidently
declined, without any symptom which could
lead us to suspect his disease, unless indeed his
brightened eyes, animated look, and flustering
cheeks, made us dread consumption ; but he was
without pain or fear. He betook himself to
books with ardour, and reposed from study in

THE LAST MAN. 22S

the society he best loved, that of his sister and
myself- Sometimes he went up to London to
vi^t Kaymond, and watch the progress of events.
Clara often accompanied him in these excursions ;
partly that she might see her parents, partly
because Adrian delighted in the prattle, and
intelligent looks of this lovely cliild.

Meanwhile all went on well in London. The
new elections were finished ; parliament met, and
Raymond was occupied in a thousand beneficial
schemes. Canals, aqueducts, bridges, stately
buildings, and various edifices for public utihty,
were entered upon ; he was continually sur-
rounded by projectors and projects, which were to
render England one scene of fertility and magni-
ficence ; the state of poverty was to be abohshed ;
men were to be transported from place to place
almost with the same facility as the Princes Hous-
sain, Ali, and Ahmed, in the Arabian Nights.
The physical state of man would soon not yield
to the beatitude of angels ; disease was to be ba-
nished; labour lightened of its heaviest burden.

224 THE LAST MAN.

Nor did this seem extravagant. The arts of
life, and the discoveries of science had aug-
mented in a ratio which left all calculation be-
hind ; food sprung up, so to say, spontaneously
— machines existed to supply with facility every
want of the population. An evil direction still
survived ; and men were not happy, not because
they could not, but because they would not
rouse themselves to vanquish self-raised obsta-
cles. Raymond was to inspire them with his
beneficial will, and the mechanism of society,
once systematised according to faultless rules,
would never again swerve into disorder. For
these hopes he abandoned his long- cherished
ambition of being enregistered in the annals of
nations as a successful warrior ; laying aside his
sword, peace and its enduring glories became
his aim — the title he coveted was that of the
benefactor of his country.

Among other works of art in which he was
engaged, he had projected the erection of a
national gallery for statues and pictures. He

THE LAST MAX. 225

possessed many himself, which he designed to
present to the Republic ; and, as the edifice was
to be the great ornament of his Protectorship,
he was very fastidious in his choice of the plan
on which it would be buih. Hundreds were
brought to him and rejected. He sent even
to Italy and Greece for drawings ; but, as the
design was to be characterized by originality
as well as by perfect beauty, his endeavours
were for a time without avail. At leno^th a
drawing came, with an address where commu-
nications might be sent, and no artist's name
affixed. The design was new and elegant, but
faulty ; so faulty, that although drawn with
the hand and eye of taste, it was evidently the
work of one who was not an architect. Ray-
mond contemplated it with delight ; the more
he gazed, the more pleased he was ; and yet the
errors multiplied • under inspection. He wrote
to the address given, desiring to see the
draughtsman, that such alterations might be
l3

9S6 THE LAST MAX-

made, as should be suggested in a consultation
between him and the original conceiver,

A Greek came. A middle-aged man, with
some intelligence of manner, but with so com-
mon-place a physiognomy, that Raymond could
scarcely beheve that he was the designer.
He acknowledged that he was not an architect ;
but the idea of the building had struck him,
though he had sent it without the smallest hope
of its being accepted. He was a man of few
words. Raymond questioned him ; but his re-
served answers soon made him turn from the
man to the drawing. He pointed out the errors,
and the alterations that he wished to be made ;
he offered the Greek a pencil that he might
correct the sketch on the spot ; this was refused
by his visitor, who said that he perfectly un-
derstood, and would work at it at home. At
length Raymond suffered him to depart.

The next day he returned. The design had
been re-drawn ; but many defects still remained,

THE LAST MAN, S27

and several of the instructions given had been
misunderstood '' Come,' said Raymond, *' I
yielded to you yesterdav, now comply with my
request — take the pencil."

The Greek took it, but he handled it in no
artist^like way ; at length he said : " I must
confess to you, my Lord, that I did not make
this drawing. It is impossible for you to see
the real designer ; your instructions must pass
through me. Condescend therefore to have
patience with my ignorance, and to explain your
wishes to me ; in time I am certain that you will
be satisfied."

Raymond questioned vainly ; the mysterious
Greek would say no more. Would an archi-
tect be permitted to see the artist ? This also
was refused. Raymond repeated his instruc-
tions, and the visitor retired. Our friend re-
solved however not to be foiled in his wish.
He suspected, that unaccustomed poverty was
the cause of the mystery, and that the artist
was unwilling to oe seen m tne garo ana aoode

^28 ITHE LASt MAa^

of want. Raymond was only the more excited
by this consideration to discover him ; impelled
by the interest he took in obscure talent, he there-
fore ordered a person skilled in such matters, to
follow the Greek the next time he came, and
observe the house in which he should enter.
His emissary obeyed, and brought the desired
intelligence. He had traced the man to one of
the most penurious streets in the metropolis.
Raymond did not wonder, that, thus situated,
the artist had shrunk from notice, but he did
not for this alter his resolve.

On the same evenings he went alone to the
house named to him. Poverty, dirt, and squalid
misery characterized its appearance. Alas I
thought Raymond, I have much to do before
England becomes a Paradise. He knocked;
the door was opened by a string from above —
the broken, wretched staircase was immediately
before him, but no person appeared ; he
knocked again, vainly— and then, impatient of
further delay, he ascended the dark, creaking

THE LAST MAN

Stairs. His main wish, more particularly now
that he witnessed the abject dwelling of the
artist, was to relieve one, possessed of talent, but
depressed by want. He pictured to himself a
youth, whose eyes sparkled with genius, whose
person was attenuated by famine. He half
feared to displease him ; but he trusted that his
generous kindness would be administered so
delicately, as not to excite repulse. What hu-
man heart is shut to kindness.'' and though
poverty, in its excess, might render the sufferer
unapt to submit to the supposed degradation
of a benefit, the zeal of the benefactor must at
last relax him into thankfulness. These thouo:hts
encouraged Raymond, as he stood at the door
of the highest room of the house. After trying
vainly to enter the other apartments, he per-
ceived just within the threshold of this one,
a pair of small Turkish slippers ; the door was
ajar, but all was silent within. It was probable
that the inmate was absent, but secure that he
had found the right person, our adventurous

THE LAST MAN.

Protector was tempted to enter, to leave a purse
on the table, and silently depart. In pursuance
of this idea, he pushed open the door gently —
but the room was inhabited.

Raymond had never visited the dwellinors of
want, and the scene that now presented itself
struck him to the heart. The floor was sunk in
many places ; the walls ragged and bare — the
ceiling weather-stained — a tattered bed stood in
the corner ; there were but two chairs in the
room, and a rough broken table, on which was
a light in a tin candlestick ; — yet in the midst of
such drear and heart sickening poverty, there was
an air of order and cleanliness that surprised
him. The thought was fleeting ; for his atten-
tion was instantly drawn towards the inhabitant
of this wretched abode. It was a female. She
sat at the table ; one small hand shaded her eyes
from the candle ; the other held a pencil ; her
looks were fixed on a drawing before her, which
Raymond recognized as the design presented to
him. Her whole appearance awakened his

THE LAST MAN. S31

deepest interest. Her dark hair was braided
and twined in thick knots like the head-dress
of a Grecian statue ; her garb was mean, but
her attitude might have been selected as a model
of grace. Raymond had a confused remem-
brance that he had seen such a form before ; he
walked across the room ; she did not raise her
eyes, merely asking in Romaic, who is there ?
" A friend," replied Raymond in the same dia-
ect. She looked up wondei'ing, and he saw
that it was Evadne Zaimi. Evadne, once the
idol of Adrian's affections ; and who, for the sake
of her present visitor, had disdained the noble
youth, and then, neglected by him she loved,
with crushed hopes and a stinging sense of misery,
had returned to her native Greece. What revo-
lution of fortune could have brouo^ht her to
England, and housed her thus P

Raymond recognized her ; and his manner
changed from polite beneficence to the warmest
protestations of kindness and sympathy. The
sight of her, in her present situation, passed like

232 THE LAST MAN.

an arrow into his soul. He sat by her, he took
her hand, and said a thousand things which
breathed the deepest spirit of compassion and
affection. Evadne did not answer ; her large
dark eyes were cast down, at length a tear glim-
mered on the lashes. " Thus," she cried,
*' kindness can do, what no want, no misery ever
effected ; I weep." She shed indeed many tears ;
her head sunk unconsciously on the shoulder of
Raymond ; he held her hand : he kissed her
sunken tear-stained cheek. He told her, that
her sufferings were now over : no one possessed
the art of consoling like Raymond ; he did not
reason or declaim, but his look shone with
sympathy; he brought pleasant images before
the sufferer ; his caresses excited no distrust, for
they arose purely from the feeling which leads
a mother to kiss her wounded child ; a desire
to demonstrate in every possible way the truth
of his feelings, and the keenness of his wish to
pour balm into the lacerated mind of the unfor-
tunate.

THE LAST MA^^ 235

As Evadne regained her composure, his
manner became even gay ; he sported with the
idea of her poverty. Something told him that
it was not its real evils that lay heavily at her
heart, but the debasement and disgrace attendant
on it ; as he talked, he divested it of these ;
sometimes speaking of her fortitude with ener-
getic praise ; then, alluding to her past state, he
called her his Princess in disguise. He made her
warm oflPers of service ; she was too much occupied
by more engrossing thoughts, either to accept
or reject them ; at length he left her, making a
promise to repeat his visit the next day. He
returned home, full of mingled feelings, of pain
excited by Evadne's wretchedness, and pleasure
at the prospect of reheving it. Some motive for
which he did not account, even to himself, pre-
vented him from relating his adventure to Per-
dita.

The next day he threw such disguise over
his person as a cloak afforded, and revisited
Evadne. As he went, he bought a basket of

THE LAST MAN.

costly fruits, such as were natives of her own
country, and throwing over these various beau-
tiful flowers, bore it himself to the miserable
garret of his friend. " Behold," cried he, as he
entered, " what bird's food 1 have brought for
my sparrow on the house-top."

Evadne now related the tale of her misfortunes.
Her father, though of high rank, had in the end
dissipated his fortune, and even destroyed his
reputation and influence through a course of
dissolute indulgence. His health was impaired
beyond hope of cure ; and it became his
earnest wish, before he died, to preserve his
daughter from the poverty which would be the
portion of her orphan state. He therefore
accepted for her, and persuaded her to accede
to, a proposal of marriage, from a wealthy
Greek merchant settled at Constantinople. She
quitted her native Greece ; her father died ; by
degrees she was cut off* from all the companions
and ties of her youth.

The war, which about a year before the pre-

THE LAST MAN. 235

sent time had broken out between Greece and
Turkey, brought about many reverses of fortune.
Her husband became bankrupt, and then in a tu-
mult and threatened massacre on the part of the
Turks, they were obliged to fly at midnight,
and reached in an open boat an English vessel
under sail, which brought them immediately to
this island. The few jewels they had saved,
supported them awhile. The whole strength of
Evadne's mind was exerted to support the
failing spirits of her husband. Loss of pro-
perty, hopelessness as to his future prospects,
the inoccupation to which poverty condemned
him, combined to reduce him to a state border-
ing on insanity. Five months after their ar-
rival in England, he committed suicide.

" You will ask me, '"' continued Evadne,
'' what I have done since ; why I have not
applied for succour to the rich Greeks resident
here ; why I have not returned to my native
country ? My answer to these questions must
needs appear to you unsatisfactory, yet they

236 THE Last man.

have sufficed to lead me on, day after day, en^
during every wretchedness, rather than by such
means to seek relief. Shall the daughter of
the noble, though prodigal Zaimi, appear a
beggar before her compeers or inferiors — supe-
riors she had none. Shall 1 bow my head
before them, and with servile gesture sell my
nobility for life ? Had I a child, or any tie to
bind me to existence, I might descend to this —
but, as it is — the world has been to me a harsh
step-mother ; fain would I leave the abode she
seems to grudge, and in the grave forget my
pride, my struggles, my despair. The time
will soon come ; grief and famine have already
sapped the foundations of my being; a very
short time, and I shall have passed away ; un-
stained by the crime of self-destruction, unstung
by the memory of degradation, my spirit will
throw aside this miserable coil, and find such
recompense as fortitude and resignation may
deserve. This may seem madness to you, yet
you also have pride and resolution ; do not then

THE LAST MAN. 237

wonder that my pride is tameless, my resolution
unalterable."

Having thus finished her tale, and given such
an account as she deemed fit, of the motives of
her abstaining from all endeavour to obtain aid
from her countrymen, Evadne paused ; yet she
seemed to have more to say, to which she was
unable to give words. In the mean time Ray-
mond was eloquent. His desire of restoring his
lovely friend to her rank in society, and to her lost
prosperity, animated him, and he poured forth
with energy, all his wishes and intentions on
that subject. But he was checked ; Evadne ex-
acted a promise, that he should conceal from all
her friends her existence in England. *' The
relatives of the Earl of Windsor," said she
haughtily, " doubtless think that I injured him ;
perhaps the Earl himself would be the first to
acquit me, but probably I do not deserve ac-
quittal. I acted then, as I ever must, from
impulse. This abode of penury may at least
prove the disinterestedness of my conduct. No

THE LAST MAN.

matter : I do not wish to plead my cause before
any of them, not even before your Lordship,
had you not first discovered me. The tenor of
my actions will prove that I had rather die, than
be a mark for scorn — ^behold the proud Evadne
in her tatters ! look on the beggar-princess !
There is aspic venom in the thought — pro-
mise me that my secret shall not be violated by
you."

Raymond promised ; but then a new discus-
sion ensued. Evadne required another engage-
ment on his part, that he would not without
her concurrence enter into any project for her
benefit, nor himself oifer relief. " Do not de-
grade me in my own eyes," she said; '' poverty
has long been my nurse ; hardvisaged she is,
but honest. If dishonour, or what I conceive
to be dishonour, come near me, I am lost."
Raymond adduced many arguments and fervent
persuasions to overcome her feeling, but she
remained unconvinced ; and, agitated by the dis-
cussion, she wildly and passionately made a so-

THE LAST MAX. 239

lemn vow, to fly and hide herself where he never
could discover her, where famine would soon
bring death to conclude her woes, if he per-
sisted in his to her disgracing offers. She could
support herself, she said. And then she shewed
him how, by executing various designs and
paintings, she earned a pittance for her support.
Raymond yielded for the present. He felt as-
sured, after he had for awhile humoured her
self-will, that in the end friendship and reason
would gain the day.

But the feelings that actuated Evadne were
rooted in the depths of her being, and were
such in their growth as he had no means of
understanding. Evadne loved Raymond. He
was the hero of her imagination, the image
carved by love in the unchanged texture of her
heart. Seven years ago, in her youthful prime,
bhe had become attached to him ; he had served
her country against the Turks ; he had in her
own land acquired that military glory peculiarly
dear to the Greeks, since they were still obliged

240 THE LAST MAN.

inch by inch to fight for their security. Yet
when he returned thence, and first appeared in
public hfe in England, her love did not pur-
chase his, which then vacillated between Perdita
and a crown. While he was yet undecided,
she had quitted England ; the news of his mar-
riage reached her, and her hopes, poorly nur-
tured blossoms, withered and fell. The glory
of life was gone for her ; the roseate halo of
love, which had imbued every object with its
own colour, faded ; — she was content to take
life as it was, and to make the best of leaden-
coloured reality. She married ; and, carrying
her restless energy of character with her into
new scenes, she turned her thoughts to ambi-
tion, and aimed at the title and power of Prin-
cess of Wallachia ; while her patriotic feelings
were soothed by the idea of the good she might
do her country, when her husband should be
chief of this principality. She lived to find
ambition, as unreal a delusion as love. Her in-
trigues with Russia for the furtherance of her

THE LAST MAN. 24i

object, excited the jealousy of the Porte, and
the animosity of the Greek government. She
was considered a traitor by both, the ruin of
her husband followed ; they avoided death by a
timely flight, and she fell from the height of
her desires to penury in England. J\luch of
this tale she concealed from Raymond ; nor did
she confess, that repulse and denial, as to a cri-
minal convicted of the worst of crimes, that of
bringing the scythe of foreign despotism to cut
away the new springing liberties of her country,
would have followed her application to any
among the Greeks.

She knew that she was the cause of her hus-
band's utter ruin ; and she strung herself to bear
the consequences. The reproaches which agony
extorted ; or worse, cureless, uncomplaining de-
pression, when his mind was sunk in a torpor, not
the less painful because it was silent and move-
less. She reproached herself with the crime of
his death ; guilt and its punishments appeared to

VOL. I. M

THE LAST MAN.

surround her ; in vain she endeavoured to allay
remorse by the memory of her real integrity ;
the rest of the world, and she among them,
judged of her actions, by their consequences.
She prayed for her husband's soul ; she con-
jured the Supreme to place on her head the
crime of his self-destruction — she vowed to live
to expiate his fault.

In the midst of such wretchedness as must
soon have destroyed her, one thought only was
matter of consolation. She lived in the same
country, breathed the same air as Raymond.
His name as Protector was the burthen of every
tongue ; his achievements, projects, and magni-
ficence, the argument of every story. Nothing
is so precious to a woman's heart as the glory
and excellence of him she loves ; thus in every
horror Evadne revelled in his fame and pros-
perity. While her husband lived, this feeling
was regarded by her as a crime, repressed, re-
pented of. When he died, the tide of love

THE LAST MAN. 243

resumed its ancient flow, it deluged her soul
with its tumultuous waves, and she gave herself
up a prey to its uncontrollable power.

But never, O, never, should he see her in her
degraded state. Never should he behold her
fallen, as she deemed, from her pride of beauty,
the poverty-stricken inhabitant of a garret, with a
name which had become a reproach, and a weight
of guilt on her soul. But though impenetrably
veiled from him, his public office permitted her
to become acquainted with all his actions, his
daily course of life, even his conversation. She
allowed herself one luxury, she saw the news-
papers every day, and feasted on the praise and
actions of the Protector. Not that this indul-
gence was devoid of accompanying grief. Per-
dita's name was for ever joined with his ; their
conjugal felicity was celebrated even by the au-
thentic testimony of facts. They were con-
tinually together, nor could the unfortunate
Evadne read the monosyllable that designated
his name, without, at the same time, being pre-
M 2

244 THE LAST MAN.

sented with the image of her who was the faith-
ful companion of all his labours and pleasures.
They, their Excellencies, met her eyes in each
line, mingling an evil potion that poisoned her
very blood.

It was in the newspaper that she saw the ad-
vertisement for the design for a national gallery.
CombinincT with taste her remembrance of the

o

edifices which she had seen in the east, and by
an effort of genius enduing them with unity of
design, she executed the plan which had been
sent to the Protector. She triumphed in the
idea of bestowing, unknown and forgotten as
she was, a benefit upon him she loved : and with
enthusiastic pride looked forward to the accom-
plishment of a work of hers, which, immortalized
in stone, would go down to posterity stamped
with the name of Raymond. She awaited with
eagerness the return of her messenger from the
palace ; she listened insatiate to his account of
each word, each look of the Protector ; she felt
bliss in this communication with her beloved.

THE LAST MAN. 245

although he knew not to whom he addressed his
instructions. The drawing itself became in-
effably dear to her. He had seen it, and praised
it ; it was again retouched by her, each stroke
of her pencil was as a chord of thrilling music,
and bore to her the idea of a temple raised to
celebrate the deepest and most unutterable emo-
tions of her soul. These contemplations en-
gaged her, when the voice of Raymond first
struck her ear, a voice, once heard, never to be
forgotten ; she mastered her gush of feelings,
and welcomed him with quiet gentleness.

Pride and tenderness now struggled, and at
length made a compromise together. She
would see Raymond, shice destiny had led him
to her, and her constancy and devotion must
merit his friendship. But her rights with re-
gard to him, and her cherished independence,
should not be injured by the idea of interest, or
the intervention of the complicated feelings at-
tendant on pecuniary obligation, and the rela-
tive situations of the benefactor, and benefited.

THE LAST MAN.

Her mind was uncommon strength; she
could subdue her sensible wants to her mental
wishes, and suffer cold, hunger and misery,
rather than concede to fortune a contested point.
Alas I that in human nature such a pitch of
mental discipline, and disdainful negligence of
nature itself, should not have been allied to the
extreme of moral excellence ! But the resolution
that permitted her to resist the pains of privation,
sprung from the too great energy of her pas-
sions; and the concentrated self-will of which this
was a sign, was destined to destroy even the
very idol, to preserve whose respect she sub-
mitted to this detail of wretchedness.

Their intercourse continued. By degrees
Evadne related to her friend the whole of her
story, the stain her name had received in Greece,
the weight of sin which had accrued to her from
the death of her husband. When Raymond
offered to clear her reputation, and demonstrate
to the world her real patriotism, she declared
that it was only through her present sufferings

THE LAST MAX. 247

that she hoped for any relief to the stings of
conscience ; that, in her state of mind, diseased
as he might think it, the necessity of occupation
was salutary medicine ; she ended by extorting
a promise that for the space of one month he
would refrain from the discussion of her in-
terests, engaging after that time to yield in
part to his wishes. She could not disguise to
herself that any change would separate her from
him ; now she saw him each day. His connec-
tion with Adrian and Perdita was never men-
tioned ; he was to her a meteor, a companionless
star, which at its appointed hour rose in her
hemisphere, whose appearance brought felicity,
and which, although it set, was never eclipsed.
He came each day to her abode of penury, and
his presence transformed it to a temple redolent
with sweets, radiant with heaven's own light ;
he partook of her delirium. '' They built a
wall between them and the world" With-
out, a thousand harpies raved, remorse and
misery, expecting the destined moment for

248 THE LAST MAX.

their invasion. Within, was the peace as of in-
nocence, reckless bhndless, deluding joy, hope,
whose still anchor rested on placid but uncon-
stant water.

Thus, while Raymond had been wrapt in
visions of power and fame, while he looked
forward to entire dominion over the elements
and the mind of man, the territory of his own
heart escaped his notice ; and from that un-
thought of source arose the mighty torrent that
overwhelmed his will, and carried to the obli-
vious sea, fame, hope, and happiness.

THE LAST MAN. 249

CHAPTER YIII.

In the mean time what did Perdita ?

During the first months of his Protectorate,
Raymond and she had been inseparable ; each
project was discussed with her, each plan ap-
proved by her. I never beheld any one so per-
fectly happy as my sweet sister. Her expres-
sive eyes were two stars whose beams were love ;
hope and light-heartedness sat on her cloudless
brow. She fed even to tears of joy on the praise
and glory of her Lord ; her whole existence was
one sacrifice to him, and if in the humility of
her heart she felt self-complacency, it arose from
the reflection that she had won the distinguished
hero of the age, and had for years preserved liim,
m3

^50 THE LAST MAN.

even after time had taken from love its usual
nourishment. Her own feeling was as entire as
at its birth. Five years had failed to destroy
the dazzling unreality of passion. Most men
ruthlessly destroy the sacred veil, with which the
female heart is wont to adorn the idol of its
affections. Not so Raymond; he was an en-
chanter, whose reign was for ever undiminished ;
a king whose power never was suspended : fol-
low him through the details of common life,
still the same charm of grace and majesty
adorned him ; nor could he be despoiled of the
innate deification with which nature had in-
vested him. Perdita grew in beauty and excel-
lence under his eye ; I no longer recognised my
reserved abstracted sister in the fascinating and
open-hearted wife of Raymond. The genius
that enlightened her countenance, was now
united to an expression of benevolence, which
gave divine perfection to her beauty.

Happiness is in its highest degree the sister of
goodness. Suffering and amiability may exist

THE LAST MAN.

251

together, and writers have loved to depict their
conjunction; there is a human and touching
harmony in the picture. But perfect happiness
is an attribute of angels ; and those who possess
it, appear angelic. Fear has been said to be
the parent of rehgion : even of that religion is it
the generator, which leads its votaries to sacrifice
human victims at its altars; but the religion
which springs from happiness is a lovelier
growth ; the religion which makes the heart
breathe forth fervent thanksgiving, and causes
us to pour out the overflowings of the soul be-
fore the author of our being ; that which is the
parent of the imagination and the nurse of
poetry; that which bestows benevolent intelli-
gence on the visible mechanism of the world,
and makes earth a temple with heaven for its
cope. Such happiness, goodness, and religion
inhabited the mind of Perdita.

During the five years we had spent together,
a knot of happy human beings at Windsor
Castle, her blissful lot had been the frequent

252 THE LAST MAN.

theme of my sister's conversation. From early
habit, and natural affection, she selected me in
preference to Adi'ian or Idris, to be the partner
in her overflowings of delight ; perhaps, though
apparently much unlike, some secret point of
resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity, in-
duced this preference. Often at sunset, 1 have
walked with her, in the sober, enshadowed
forest paths, and listened with joyful sympathy.
Security gave dignity to her passion ; the cer-
tainty of a full return, left her with no wish un-
fulfilled. The birth of her daughter, embryo
copy of her Raymond, filled up the measure of
her content, and produced a sacred and indisso-
luble tie between them. Sometimes she felt
proud that he had preferred her to the hopes of
a crown. Sometimes she remembered that she
had suffered keen anguish, when he hesitated in
his choice. But this memory of past discontent
only served to enhance her present joy. What
had been hardly won, was now, entirely pos-
sessed, doubly dear. She would look at him at

THE LAST MAN. 253

a distance with the same rapture, (O, far more
exuberant rapture !) that one might feel, who
after the perils of a tempest, should find him-
self in the desired port ; she would hasten to-
wards him, to feel more certain in his arms, the
reality of her bliss. This warmth of affection,
added to the depth of her understanding, and
the brilliancy of her imagination, made her
beyond words dear to Raymond.

If a feeling of dissatisfaction ever crossed
her, it arose from the idea that he was not per-
fectly happy. Desire of renovv n, and presump-
tuous ambition, had characterized his youth.
The one he had acquired in Greece ; the other
he had sacrificed to love. His intellect found
sufficient field for exercise in his domestic circle,
whose members, all adorned by refinement and
literature, were many of them, like himself,
distinguished by genius. Yet active life was
the genuine soil for his virtues ; and he some-
times suffered tedium from the monotonous suc-
<'^ssion of events in our retirement. Prid<*

254 THE LAST MAN.

made him recoil from complaint ; and gratitude
and affection to Perdita, generally acted as an
opiate to all desire, save that of meriting her
love. We all observed the visitation of these
feelings, and none regretted them so much as
Perdita. Her life consecrated to him, was a
slight sacrifice to reward his choice, but was not
that sufficient — Did he need any gratification
that she was unable to bestow ? This was
the only cloud in the azure of her happi-
ness.

His passage to power had been full of pain
to both. He however attained his wish ; he
filled the situation for which nature seemed to
have moulded him. His activity was fed in
wholesome measure, without either exhaustion or
satiety ; his taste and genius found worthy ex-
pression in each of the modes human beings
have invented to encage and manifest the spirit
of beauty ; the goodness of his heart made him
never weary of conducing to the well-being of
his fellow-creatures ; his magnificent spirit, and

THE LAST MAN. 255

aspirations for the respect and love of mankind,
now received fruition ; true, his exaltation was
temporary ; perhaps it were better that it should
be so. Habit would not dull his sense of the
enjoyment of power ; nor struggles, disappoint-
ment and defeat await the end of that which
would expire at its maturity. He determined
to extract and condense all of glory, power, and
achievement, which might have resulted from a
long reign, into the three years of his Protec-
torate.

Raymond was eminently social. All that he
now enjoyed would have been devoid of plea-
sure to him, had it been unparticipated. But
in Perdita he possessed all that his heart could
desire. Her love gave birth to sympathy ; her
intelligence made her understand him at a word;
her powers of intellect enabled her to assist and
guide him. He felt her worth. During the
early years of their union, the inequality of her
temper, and yet unsubdued self-will which tar-
nished her character, had been a slight draw*

256 THE LAST MAX.

back to the fulness of his sentiment. Now that
unchanged serenity, and gentle compliance
were added to her other qualifications, his re-
spect equalled his love. Years added to the
strictness of their union. They did not now
guess at, and totter on the pathway, divining
the mode to please, hoping, yet fearing the con-
tinuance of bliss. Five years gave a sober cer-
tainty to their emotions, though it did not rob
them of their etherial nature. It bad given
them a child ; but it had not detracted from the
personal attractions of my sister. Timidity,
which in her had almost amounted to awkward-
ness, was exchanged for a graceful decision of
manner ; frankness, instead of reserve, charac-
terized her physiognomy ; and her voice was
attuned to thrilling softness. She was now
three and t wenty, in the pride of womanhood,
fulfilling the precious duties of wife and mother,
possessed of all her heart had ever coveted.
Raymond was ten years older ; to his previous
beauty, noble mien, and commanding aspect,

THE LAST MAN. ^57

he now added gentlest benevolence, winning
tenderness, graceful and unwearied attention to
the wishes of another.

The first secret that had existed between them
was the visits of Raymond to Evadne. He had
been struck by the fortitude and beauty of the
ill-fated Greek ; and, when her constant tender-
ness towards him unfolded itself, he asked with
astonishment, by what act of his he had merited
this passionate and unrequited love. She was
for a while the sole object of his reveries ; and
Perdita became aware that his thoughts and
time were bestowed on a subject unparticipated
by her. My sister was by nature destitute of
the common feelings of anxious, petulant jea-
lousy. The treasure which she possessed in
the affections of Raymond, was more necessary
to her being, than the life-blood that animated
her veins — more truly than Othello she might
say,

To be once in doubt.
Is — once to be resolved.

^8 THE LAST MAN.

On the present occasion she did not suspect any
alienation of affection ; but she conjectured that
some circumstance connected with his high
place, had occasioned this mystery. She was
startled and pained. She began to count the
long days, and months, and years which must
elapse, before he would be restored to a private
station, and unreservedly to her. She was not
content that, even for a time, he should practice
concealment with her. She often repined ; but
her trust in the singleness of his affection was
undisturbed ; and, when they were together,
unchecked by fear, she opened her heart to the
fullest delight.

Time went on. Raymond, stopping mid- way
in his wild career, paused suddenly to think of
consequences. Two results presented them-
selves in the view he took of the future. That
his intercourse with Evadne should continue a
secret to, or that finally it should be discovered
by Perdita. The destitute condition, and highly
wrought feelings of his friend prevented him

THE LAST MAN. ^59

from adverting to the possibility of exiling him-
self from her. In the first event he had bidden
an eternal farewell to open-hearted converse, and
entire sympathy with the companion of his life.
The veil must be thicker than that invented by
Turkish jealousy ; the wall higher than the un-
scaleable tower of Vathek, which should conceal
from her the workings of his heart, and hide
from her view the secret of his actions. This
idea was intolerably painful to him. Frankness
and social feelings were the essence of Raymond's
nature; without them his qualities became com-
mon-place; without these to spread glory over
his intercourse with Perdita, his vaunted ex-
change of a throne for her love, was as w^eak
and empty as the rainbow hues which vanish
when the sun is down. But there was no re-
medy. Genius, devotion, and courage; the
adornments of his mind, and the energies of his
soul, all exerted to their uttermost stretch, could
not roll back onehair's breadth the wheel of time's
chariot ; that which had been was written with

260 THE LAST MAN.

the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting
volume of the past ; nor couid agony and tears
suffice to wash out one iota from the act ful-
filled.

But this was the best side of the question.
What, if circumstance should lead Perdita to
suspect, and suspecting to be resolved ? The
fibres of his frame became relaxed, and cold
dew stood on his forehead, at this idea. Many
men may scoff at his dread ; but he read the
future ; and the peace of Perdita was too dear
to him, her speechless agony too certain, and
too fearful, not to unman him. His course was
speedily decided upon. If the worst befell; if
she learnt the truth, he would neither stand her
reproaches, or the anguish of her altered looks.
He would forsake her, England, his friends,
the scenes of his youth, the hopes of coming
time, he w^ould seek another country, and in
other scenes begin life again. Having resolved
on this, he became calmer. He endeavoured to
guide with prudence the steeds of destiny through

THE LAST MAN. 261

the devious road which he had chosen, and bent
all his efforts the better to conceal what he could
not alter.

The perfect confidence that subsisted between
Perdita and him, rendered every communication
common between them. They opened each
other's letters, even as, until now, the inmost fold
of the heart of each w^as disclosed to the other.
A letter came unawares, Perdita read it. Had
it contained confirmation, she must have been
annihilated. As it Avas, trembHng, cold, and
palcj she sought Raymond. He was alone,
examining some petitions lately presented. She
entered silently, sat on a sofa opposite to him,
and gazed on him with a look of such despair,
that wildest shrieks and dire moans would have
been tame exhibitions of misery, compared to
the living incarnation of the thing itself exhibited
by her.

At first he did not take his eyes from the
papers ; when he raised them, he was struck by

262 THE LAST MAN.

the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek ;
for a moment he forgot his own acts and fears,
and asked with consternation — '' Dearest girl,
what is the matter ; what has happened ?"

" Nothing," she replied at first ; " and yet
not so," she continued, hurrying on in her
speech; " you have secrets, Raymond; where
have you been lately, whom have you seen,
what do you conceal from me ? — why am I
banished from your confidence ? Yet this is
not it — I do not intend to entrap you with
questions — one will suffice — am I completely a
wretch ?"

With trembling hand she gave him the paper,
and sat white and motionless looking at him
while he read it. He recognised the hand-TVTit-
ing of Evadne, and the colour mounted in his
cheeks. With lightning-speed he conceived the
contents of the letter ; all was now cast on one
die ; falsehood and artifice were trifles in com-
parison with the impending ruin. He would

THE LAST MAN. 263

either entirely dispel Perdita's suspicions, or
quit her for ever. " My dear girl," he said,
" I have been to blame ; but you must pardon
me. I was in the wrong to commence a system
of concealment ; but I did it for the sake of
sparing you pain ; and each day has rendered it
more difficult for me to alter my plan. Besides,
I was instigated by delicacy towards the un-
happy writer of these few lines."

Perdita gasped : " Well," she cried, " well,
go on !"

** That is all — this paper tells all. I am
placed in the most difficult circumstances. I
have done my best, though perhaps I have done
wrong. My love for you is inviolate."

Perdita shook her head doubtingly : " It can-
not be," she cried, " I know that it is not.
You would deceive me, but I will not be de-
ceived. I have lost you, myself, my life !"

" Do you not believe me ?" said Raymond
haughtily.

" To believe you," she exclaimed, '* I would

264 THE LAST MAN.

give up all, and expire with joy, so that in
death I could feel that you were [true — but that
cannot be !""

" Perdita," continued Raymond, " you do
not see the precipice on which you stand. You
may believe that I did not enter on my present
line of conduct without reluctance and pain.
I knew that it was possible that your suspicions
might be excited ; but I trusted that my simple
word would cause them to disappear. I built
my hope on your confidence. Do you think
that I will be questioned, and my replies dis-
dainfully set aside ? Do you think that I will
be suspected, perhaps watched, cross -ques-
tioned, and disbelieved ? I am not yet fallen
so low; my honour is not yet so tarnished.
You have loved me; I adored you. But all
human sentiments come to an end. Let our
afPection expire — but let it not be exchanged for
distrust and recrimination. Heretofore we have
been friends — lovers — let us not become ene-
mies, mutual spies. I cannot live the object

THE LAST MAX. ^65

of suspicion — you cannot believe me — let us
part !"

" Exactly so," cried Perdita, " I knew that
it would come to this ! Are we not already
parted ? Does not a stream, boiuidless as ocean,
deep as vacuum, yawn between us ?"

Raymond rose, his voice was broken, his
features convulsed^ his manner calm as the earth-
quake-cradhng atmosphere, he replied : "I am
rejoiced that you take my decision so philoso-
phically. Doubtless you will play the part of
the injured wife to admiration. Sometimes you
may be stung with the feeling that you have
wronged me, but the condolence of your rela-
tives, the pity of the world, the complacency
which the consciousness of your own immaculate
innocence will bestow, ^vill be excellent balm ; —
me you will never see more !"

Raymond moved towards the door. He for-
got that each word he spoke was false. He per-
sonated his assumption of innocence even to
self-deception. Have not actors wept , as they
VOL. 1. N

^66 THE LAST MAN.

pourtrayed imagined passion ? A more intense
feeling of the reality of fiction possessed Ray-
mond. He spoke with pride ; he felt injured.
Perdita looked up ; she saw his angry glance ;
his hand was on the lock of the door. She
started up, she threw herself on his neck, she
gasped and sobbed; he took her hand, and
leading her to the sofa, sat down near her. Her
head fell on his shoulder, she trembled, alter-
nate changes of fire and ice ran through lier
limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with
softened accents:

" The blow is given. I will not part from
you in anger ; — I owe you too much. I owe
you six years of unalloyed happiness. But
they are passed. I will not live the mark of
suspicion, the object of jealousy. I love you
too well. In an eternal separation only can
either of us hope for dignity and propriety of
action. We shall not then be degraded from
our true characters. Faith and devotion have
hitherto been the essence of our intercourse; —

THE LAST MAN. 267

these lost, let us not cling to the seedless husk
of life, the unkernelled shell. You have your
child, your brother, Idris, Adrian"

"■ And you," cried Perdita, " the writer of
that letter."

Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the
eyes of Raymond. He knew that this accusa-
tion at least was false. " Entertain this belief,"
he cried, " hug it to your heart — make it a pil-
low to your head, an opiate for your eyes — I
am content. But, by the God that made me,
hell is not more false than the word you liave
spoken !"

Perdita was struck by the impassioned seri-
ousness of his asseverations. She replied with
earnestness, "I do not refuse to believe you,
Raymond ; on the contrary I promise to put
imphcit faith in your simple word. Only assure
me that your love and faith towards me have
never been violated ; and suspicion, and doubt,
and jealousy will at once be dispersed. We

268 THE LAST MAN.

shall continue as we have ever done, one heart,
one hope, one hfe."

" I have already assured you of my fidelity,''
said Raymond with disdainful coldness, " triple
assertions will avail nothing where one is de-
spised. I will say no more ; for I can add
nothing to what I have already said, to what
you before contemptuously set aside. This
contention is unworthy of both of us ; and I
confess that I am weary of replying to charges
at once unfounded and unkind."

Perdita tried to read his countenance, which
he angrily averted. There was so much of
truth and nature in his resentment, that her
doubts were dispelled. Her countenance, which
for years had not expressed a feeling unallied to
affection, became again radiant and satisfied.
She found it however no easy task to soften and
reconcile Raymond. At first he refused to stay
to hear her. But she would not be put off ;
secure of his unaltered love, she was drilling to

THE LAST MAN. 269

undertake any labour, use any entreaty, to
dispel his anger. She obtained an hearing, he
sat in haughty silence, but he listened. She
first assured him of her boundless confidence ;
of this he must be conscious, since but for that
she would not seek to detain him. She enu-
merated their years of happiness ; she brought
before him past scenes of intimacy and happi-
ness ; she pictured their future life, she men-
tioned their child — tears unbidden now filled
her eyes. She tried to disperse them, but they
refused to be checked — her utterance was
choaked. She had not wept before. Raymond
could not resist these signs of distress : he felt
perhaps somewhat ashamed of the part he acted
of the injured man, he who was in truth the
injurer. And then he devoutly loved Perdita;
the bend of her head, her glossy ringlets, the
turn of her form were to him subjects of deep
tenderness and admiration ; as she spoke, her
melodious tones entered his soul ; he soon sof-
tened towards her, comforting and caressing

S70 THE LAST MAS.

her, and endeavouring to cheat himself into the
behef that he had never wronged her.

Raymond staggered forth from this scene, as
a man might do, who had been just put to the
torture, and looked forward to when it would be
acrain inflicted. He had sinned asrainst his own
honour, by affirming, swearing to, a direct false-
hood ; true this he had palmed on a woman, and
it might therefore be deemed less base — by others
— not by him; — for whom had he deceived? —
his own trusting, devoted, affectionate Perdita,
whose generous belief galled him doubly, when
he remembered the parade of innocence with
which it had been exacted. The mind of Ray-
mond was not so rough cast, nor had been so
rudely handled, in the circumstance of life, as to
make him proof to these consideration^ — on the
contrary, he was all nerve ; his spirit was as a
pure fire, which fades and shrinks from every
contagion of foul atmosphere : but now the
contagion had become incorporated with its es-
sence, and the change was the more painful.

THE LAST MAX. S7 1

Truth and falsehood, love and hate lost their
eternal boundaries, heaven rushed in to mingle
with hell; while his sensitive mind, turned to a
field for such battle, was stung to madness. He
heartily despised himself, he was angry with
Perdita, and the idea of Evadne was attended
by all that was hideous and cruel. His passions,
always his masters, acquired fresh strength, from
the long^ sleep in whicli love had cradled them,
the clinging weight of destiny bent him down ;
he was goaded, tortured, fiercely impatient of
that worst of miseries, the sense of remorse.
This troubled state yielded by degrees, to sul-
len animosity, and depression of spirits. His
dependants, even his equals, if in his present
post he had any, were startled to find anger,
derision, and bitterness in one, before distin-
guished for suavity and benevolence of manner.
He transacted public business with distaste, and
liastened from it to the solitude which was at
once his bane and relief. He mounted a fiery
horse, that which had borne him forward to vie-

272 THE LAST MAN.

tory in Greece ; he fatigued himself with dead-
ening exercise, losing the pangs of a troubled
mind in animal sensation.

He slowly recovered himself; yet, at last, as
one might from the effects of poison, he lifted his
head from above the vapours of fever and pas-
sion into the still atmosphere of calm reflection.
He meditated on what was best to be done. He
was first struck by the space of time that had
elapsed, since madness, rather than any reasonable
impulse, had regulated his actions. A month
had gone by, and during that time he had not
seen Evadne. Her power, which was linked to
few of the enduring emotions of his heart, had
greatly decayed. He was no longer her slave —
no longer her lover: he would never see her more,
and by the completeness of his return, deserve
the confidence of Perdita.

Yet, as he thus determined, fancy conjured
up the miserable abode of the Greek girl. An
abode, which from noble and lofty principle, she
had refused to exchange for one of greater

THE LAST MAX. 273

luxury. He thought of the splendour of her
situation and appearance when he first knew her;
he thought of her life at Constantinople, attended
by every circumstance of oriental magnificence ;
of her present penury, her daily task of industry,
her lorn state, her faded, famine-struck cheek.
Compassion swelled his breast ; he would see
her once again ; he would devise some plan for
restoring' her to society, and the enjoyment of
her rank ; their separation would then follow,
as a matter of course.

Again he thought, how during this long
month, he had avoided Perdita, flying from her
as from the stings of his own conscience. But
he was awake now; all this should be remedied;
and future devotion erase the memory of this
only blot on the serenity of their hfe. He be-
came cheerful, as he thought of thi^, and soberly
and resolutely marked out the line of conduct
he would adopt He remembered that he had
promised Perdita to be present this very even-
ing (the 19th of October, anniversary of his
N 3

274? THE LAST MAK.

election as Protector) at a festival given in his
honour. Good augury should this festival be of
the happiness of future years. First, he would
look in on Evadne; he would not stay ; but he
owed her some account, some compensation for
his long and unannounced absence ; and then to
Perdita, to the forgotten world, to the duties of
society, the splendour of rank, the enjoyment of
power.

After the scene sketched in the preceding
pages, Perdita had contemplated an entire
change in the manners and conduct of Raymond.
She expected freedom of communication, and a
return to those habits of affectionate intercourse
which had formed the delight of her Hfe. But
Raymond did not join her in any of her avoca-
tions. He transacted the business of the day
apart from her ; he went out, she knew not whi-
ther. The pain inflicted by this disappointment
was tormenting and keen. She looked on it as
a deceitful dream, and tried to throw off the
consciousness of it ; but like the shirt of Nessus,

THE LAST MAN 275

it clung to her very flesh, and ate with sharp
agony into her -vital principle. She possessed
that (though such an assertion may appear a
paradox) which belongs to few, a capacity
of happiness. Her delicate organization and
creative imagination rendered her peculiarly
susceptible of pleasurable emotion. The over-
flowing warmth of her heart, by making love a
plant of deep root and stately growth, had at-
tuned her whole soul to the reception of happi-
ness, when she found in Raymond all that could
adorn love and satisfy her imagination. But if
the sentiment on which the fabric of her ex-
istence was founded, became common place
through participation, the endless succession of
attentions and graceful action snapt by transfer,
his universe of love wrested from her, happiness
must depart, and then be exchanged for its oppo-
site. The same peculiarities of character ren-
dered her sorrows agonies ; her fancy magnified
them, her sensibility made her for ever open to
their renewed impression ; love envenomed the

276 THE LAST MAN.

heart-piercing sting. There was neither sub-
mission, patience, nor self-abandonment in her
grief; she fought with it, struggled beneath it,
and rendered every pang more sharp by resist-
ance. Again and again the idea recurred, that
he"~ loved another. She did him justice; she
believed that he felt a tender aiFection for her ;
but give a paltry prize to him who in some life-
pending lottery has calculated on the possession
of tens of thousands, and it will disappoint him
more than a blank. The affection and amity
of a Raymond might be inestimable ; but, be-
yond that affection, embosomed deeper than
friendship, was the indivisible treasure of love.
Take the sum in its completeness, and no arith-
metic can calculate its price ; take from it the
smallest portion, give it but the name of parts,
separate it into degrees and sections, and like the
magician's coin, the valueless gold of the mine,
is turned to vilest substance. There is a meaning
in the eye of love ; a cadence in its voice, an
iJTadiation in its smile, the talisman of whose en-

THE LAST MAN. 277

chantments one only can possess; its spirit is
elemental, its essence single, its divinity an
unit. The very heart and soul of Raymond
and Perdita had mingled, even as two mountain
brooks that join in their descent, and murmur-
ing and sparkling flow over shining pebbles,
beside starry flowers; but let one desert its
primal course, or be dammed up by choaking
obstruction, and the other shrinks in its altered
banks. Perdita was sensible of the failinor of

o

the tide that fed her life. Unable to support
the slow withering of her hopes, she suddenly
formed a plan, resolving to terminate at once
the period of misery, and to bring to an happy
conclusion the late disastrous events.

The anniversary was at hand of the exalta-
tion of Raymond to the office of Protector ; and
it was customary to celebrate this day by a
splendid festival. A variety of feelings urged
Perdita to shed double magnificence over the
scene ; yet, as she arrayed herself for the even-
ing gala, she wondered herself at the pains she

^8 THE LAST MAN.

took, to render sumptuous the celebration of an
event which appeared to her the beginning of
her sufferings. Woe befall the day, she thought,
woe, tears, and mourning betide the hour, that
gave Raymond another hope than love, another
wish than my devotion ; and thrice joyful the
moment when he shall be restored to me ! God
knows, I put my trust in his vows, and believe
his asserted faith — but for that, I would not
seek what I am now resolved to attain. Shall
two years more be thus passed, each day adding
to our alienation, each act being another stone
piled on the barrier which separates us ? No,
my Raymond, my only beloved, sole possession
of Perdita ! This night, this splendid assem-
bly, these sumptuous apartments, and this
adornment of your tearful girl, are all united
to celebrate your abdication. Once for me,
you relinquished the prospect of a crown. That
was in days of early love, when I could only
hold out the hope, not the assurance of happi-
ness. Now you have the experience of all that

THE LAST MAX. 279

I can give, the heart's devotion, taintless love,
and unhesitating subjection to you. You must
choose between these and your protectorate.
This, proud noble, is your last night ! Perdita
has bestowed on it all of magnificent and dazzhng
that your heai*t best loves — but, from these gor-
geous rooms, from this princely attendance, from
power and elevation, you must return ^nth to-
morrow"'s sun to our rural abode ; for I would
not buy an immortality of joy, by the endu-
rance of one more week sister to the last.

Brooding over this plan, resolved when the
hour should come, to propose, and insist upon
its accomphshment, secure of his consent, the
heart of Perdita was hghtened, or rather ex-
alted. Her cheek was flushed by the expecta-
tion of struggle ; her eyes sparkled with the hope
of triumph. Having cast her fate upon a die,
and feeling secure of winning, she, whom I have
named as beai'ing the stamp of queen of r.ations
on her noble brow, now rose superior to huma-
nity, and seemed in calm power, to arrest with

80 THE LAST MAN.

her finger, the wheel of destiny. She had
never before looked so supremely lovely.

We, the' Arcadian shepherds of the tale, had
intended to be present at this festivity, but Per-
dita wrote to entreat us not to come, or to ab-
sent ourselves from Windsor ; for she (though
she did not reveal her scheme to us) resolved
the next morning to return with Raymond to
our dear circle, there to renew a course of life
in which she had found entire felicity. Late in
the evening she entered the apartments appro-
priated to the festival. Raymond had quitted
the palace the night before ; he had promised to
grace the assembly, but he had not yet re-
turned. Still she felt sure that he would come
at last ; and the wider the breach might appear
at this crisis, the more secure she was of closing
it for ever.

It was as I said, the nineteenth of October;
the autumn was far advanced and dreary. The
wind howled; the half bare trees were despoiled
of the remainder of their summer ornament ; the

THE LAST MAN. 281

State of the air which induced the decay of
vegetation, was hostile to cheerfulness or hope.
Raymond had been exalted by the determina-
tion he had made ; but with the declining day his
spirits declined. First he was to visit E^i^dne,
and then to hasten to the palace of the Protec-
torate. As he walked through the wretched
streets in the neighbourhood of the luckless
Greek's abode, his heart smote him for the
whole course of his conduct towards her. First,
his having entered into any engagement that
should permit her to remain in such a state of de-
gradation ; and then, after a short wild dream,
having left her to drear solitude, anxious con-
jecture, and bitter, still — disappointed expec-
tation. What had she done the while, how
supported his absence and neglect ? Light grew
dim in these close streets, and when the well
known door was opened, the staircase was
shrouded in perfect night. He groped his
way up, he entered the garret, he found
Evadne stretched speechless, almost life-

^2 THE LAST MAN.

less on her wretched bed. He called for the
people of the house, but could learn nothing
from them, except that they knew nothhig.
Her story was plain to him, plain and distinct
as t^ remorse and horror that darted their
fangs into him. When she found herself
forsaken by him, she lost the heart to pur-
sue her usual avocations ; pride forbade every
application to him ; famine was welcomed as
the kind porter to the gates of death, within
whose opening folds she should now, without
sin, quickly repose. No creature came neai*
her, as her strength failed.

If she died, where could there be found on
record a mvu'derer, whose cruel, act might com-
pare with his ? What fiend more wanton in his
mischief, what damned soul more worthy of
perdition ! But he was not reserved for this
agony of self-reproach. He sent for medical
assistance ; the hours passed, spun by suspense
into ages ; the darkness of the long autumnal
night yielded to day, before her life was secure.

THE LAST MAX. 283

He had her then removed to a more commodi-
ous dwelling, and hovered about her, again and
again to assure himself that she was safe.

In the midst of his greatest suspense and fear
as to the event, he remembered the festival
given in his honour, by Perdita ; in his honour
then, when misery and death were affixing in-
delible disgrace to his name, honour to him
whose crimes deserved a scaffold ; this was
the worst mockery. Still Perdita would expect
him ; he wrote a few incoherent words on a
scrap of paper, testifying that he was well, and
bade the woman of the house take it to the palace,
and deliver it into the hands of the wife of the
Lord Protector. The woman, who did not know
him, contemptuously asked, how he thought
she should gain admittance, particularly on a
festal night, to that lady's presence ? Raymond
gave her his ring to ensure the respect of the
menials. Thus, while Perdita was entertaining
her guests, and anxiously awaiting the arrival
of her lord, his ring was brought her ; and she

284* THE LAST MAN.

was told that a poor woman had a note to de-
liver to her from its wearer.

The vanity of the old gossip was raised by
her commission, which, after all, she did not un-
derstand, since she had no suspicion, even now
that Evadne's visitor was Lord Raymond.
Perdita dreaded a fall from his horse, or some
similar accident — till the woman's answers woke
other fears. From a feeling of cunning blindly
exercised, the officious, if not malignant messen-
ger, did not speak of Evadne's illness ; but she
garrulously gave an account of Raymond's fre-
quent visits, adding to her narration such cir-
cumstances, as, while they convinced Perdita
of its truth, exaggerated the unkindness and
perfidy of Raymond. Worst of all, his
absence now from the festival, his message wholly
unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful hints
of the woman, appeared the deadliest insult.
Again she looked at the ring, it was a small ruby,
almost heart-shaped, which she had herself given
him. She looked at the hand- writing, which she

THE LAST MAN. 285

could not mistake, and repeated to herself the
words — " Do not, I charge you, I entreat you,
permit your guests to wonder at my absence :"
the while the old crone going on with her talk,
filled her ear with a strange medley of truth and
falsehood. At length Perdita dismissed her.

The poor girl returned to the assembly, where
her presence had not been missed. She glided
into a recess somewhat obscured, and leaning
against an ornamental column there placed, tried
to recover herself. Her faculties were palsied.
She gazed on some flowers that stood near in a
carved vase: that morning she had arranged
them, they were rare and lovely plants ; even
now all aghast as she was, she observed their
brilliant colours and starry shapes. — " Divine
infoliations of the spirit of beauty,'"* she ex-
claimed, '' Ye droop not, neither do ye mourn ;
the despair that clasps my heart, has not spread
contagion over you ! — Why am I not a partner
of your insensibility, a sharer in your calm !"
She paused . " To my task,*' she continued

2S6 THE LAST ]\IAN.

mentally, " my guests must not perceive the
reality, either as it regards him or me. I obey ;
they shall not, though I die the moment they
are gone. They shall behold the antipodes of
what is real — for I will appear to live — while I
am — dead." It required all her self-command,
to suppress the gush of tears self-pity caused at
this idea. After many struggles, she succeeded,
and turned to join the company.

All her efforts were now directed to the dis-
sembling her internal conflict. She had to play
the part of a courteous hostess ; to attend to
all ; to shine the focus of enjoyment and grace.
She had to do this, while in deep woe she sighed
for loneliness, and would gladly have exchanged
her crowded rooms for dark forest depths, or a
drear, night-enshadowcd heath. But she became
gay. She could not keep in the medium, nor be,
as was usual with her, placidly content. Every
one remarked her exhilaration of spirits ; as all
actions appear graceful in the eye of rank, her
guests surrounded her applaudingly, although

THE LAST MAX. 287

there was a sharpness in her laugh, and an ab-
ruptness in her saUies, which might have betray-
ed her secret to an attentive observer. She went
on, feehngthat, if she had paused for a moment,
the checked waters of misery would have de-
luged her soul, that her wrecked hopes would
raise their wailing voices, and that those who now
echoed her mirth, and provoked her repartees,
would have shrunk in fear from her convulsive
despair. Her only consolation during the vio-
lence which she did herself, was to watch the
motions of an illuminated clock, and internally
count the moments which must elapse before
she could be alone.

At length the rooms began to thin. Mocking
her own desires, she rallied her guests on their
early departure. One by one they left her — at
length she pressed the hand of her last visitor.
'' How cold and damp your hand is," said her
friend ; " you are over fatigued, pray hasten to
rest."' Perdita smiled faintly — her guest left
her; the carriage rolling down the street assured

288 THE LAST MAN.

the final departure. Then, as if pursued by an
enemy, as if wings had been at her feet, she
flew to her own apartment, she dismissed her
attendants, she locked the doors, she threw
herself wildly on the floor, she bit her lips even to
blood to suppress her shrieks, and lay long a
prey to the vulture of despair, striving not to
think, while multitudinous ideas made a home
of her heart ; and ideas, horrid as furies, cruel as
vipers, and poured in with such swift succession,
that thfy seemed to jostle and woum! each
other, while they worked her up to madness.

At length she rose, more composed, not less
miserable. She stood before a large mirror —
she gazed on her reflected image ; her light and
graceful dress, the jewels that studded he.'* hair,
and encircled her beauteous arms and neck, her
small feet shod in satin, her profuse and glossy
tresses, all were to her clouded brow and woe-
begone countenance like a gorgeous frame to a
dark tempest-pourtraying picture. " \ase am
I," she thought, " vase brimful of despair's

THE LAST MAX. £89

direst essence. Farewell, Perdita ! farewell, poor
girl ! never again will you see yourself thus ;
luxury and wealth are no longer yours ; in the
excess of your poverty you may envy the home-
less beggar ; most truly am I without a home !
I live on a barren desart, which, wide and in-
terminable, brings forthn either fruit or flower ;
in the mid-^t is a solitary rock, to which thou,
Perdita, art chained, and thou seest the dreary
level stretch far away.'**

She threw open her window, which looked en
the palace-garden. Light and darkness were
struggling together, and the orient was streaked
by roseate and golden rays. One star only
trembled in the depth of the kindling atmo-
sphere. The morning air blowing freshly over
the dewy plants, rushed into the heated room.
" All things go on," thought Perdita, " all
tilings proceed, decay, and perish ! When
noontide has passed, and the weary day has
driven her team to their western stalls, the fires
of heaven rise from the East, moving in their

VOL. I. o

290 THE LAST MAN.

accustomed path, they ascend and descend the
skiey hill. When their course is fulfilled, the
dial begins to cast westward an uncertain
shadow; the eye-lids of day are opened, and
birds and flowers, the startled vegetation, and
fresh breeze awaken ; the sun at length ap-
pears, and in majestic procession climbs the
capitol of heaven. All proceeds, changes and
dies, except the sense of misery in my bursting
heart.

" Ay, all proceeds and changes : what wonder
then, that love has journied on to its setting,
and that the lord of my life has changed ? We
call the supernal lights fixed, yet they wander
about yonder plain, and if I look again where I
looked an hour ago, the face of the eternal
heavens is altered. The silly moon and incon-
stant planets vary nightly their erratic dance ;
the sun itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and
anon deserts liis throne, and leaves his domi-
nion to night and winter. Nature grows old,
and shakes in her decaying limbs, — creation has

THE LAST MAN. 291

become bankrupt ! What wonder then, that
eclipse and death have led to destruction the
light of thy life, O Perdita !"

o2

292 THE LAST MAX.

CHAPTER IX.

Thus sad and disarranged were the thoughts
of my poor sister, when she became assured of
the infidelity of Raymond. All her virtues and
all her defects tended to make the blow in-
curable. Her affection for me, her brother,
for Adrian and Idris, was subject as it were to
the reigning passion of her heart ; even her
maternal tenderness borrowed half its force
from the delight she had in tracing Raymond's
features and expression in the infant's coun-
tenance. She had been reserved and even stern
in childhood ; but love had softened the asperi-
ties of her character, and her union with Ray-

THE LAST MAN. 293

mond had caused her talents and affections to
unfold themselves; the one betrayed, and the
other lost, she in some degree returned to her
ancient disposition. The concentrated pride of
her nature, forgotten during her blissful dream,
awoke, and with its adder's sting pierced her
heart; her humility of spirit augmented the
power of the venom ; she had been exalted in
her own estimation, while distinguished by his
love : of what worth was she, now that he thrust
her from this preferment ? She had been proud
of having won and preserved him — but another
had v/on him from her, and her exultation w^as as
cold as a water quenched ember.

We, in our retirement, remained long in
ignorance of her misfortune. Soon after the
festival she had sent for her child, and then she
seemed to have forgotten us. Adrian observed
a change during a visit that he afterward paid
them ; but he could not tell its extent, or divine
the cause. They still appeared in public to-
gether, and lived under the same roof. Ray-

294 THE LAST MAX.

mond was as usual courteous, though there wae,
on occasions, an unbidden haughtiness, or pain-
ful abruptness in his manners, which startled
his gentle friend ; his brow was not clouded
but disdain sat on his lips, and his voice was
harsh. Perdita was all kindness and attention
to her lord ; but she was silent, and beyond words
sad. She had grown thin and pale ; and her
eyes often filled with tears. Sometimes she
looked at Raymond, as if to say — That it should
be so ! At others her countenance expressed —
I will still do all I can to make you happy.
But Adrian read with uncertain aim the
charactery of her face, and might mistake. —
Clara was always with her, and she seemed
most at ease, when, in an obscure corner, she
could sit holding her child's hand, silent and
lonely. Still Adrian was unable to guess the
truth ; he entreated them to visit us at Wind-
sor, and they promised to come during the fol-
lowing month.

It was May before they arrived : the season

THE LAST MAX. 5295

had decked the forest trees with leaves, and its
paths with a thousand flowers. We had notice
of their intention the day before ; and, early in
the morning, Perdita arrived with her daughter.
Raymond would follow soon, she said ; he had
been detained by business. According to
Adrian's account, I had expected to find her
sad ; but, on the contrary, she appeared in the
highest spirits : true, she had grown thin, her
eyes were somewhat hollow, and her cheeks sunk,
though tinged by a bright glow. She was
delighted to see us ; caressed our children,
praised their growth and improvement; CJara
also was pleased to meet again her young friend
Alfred ; all kinds of childish games Avere
entered into, in which Perdita joined. She
communicated her gaiety to us, and as we
amused ourselves on the Castle Terrace, it ap-
peared that a happier, less care-worn party could
not have been assembled. " This is better.
Mamma,"''' said Clara, " that being in that dis-
mal London, where you often cry, and never

296 THE LAST MAN.

laugh as you do now." — " Silence, little foolish
thing,*" replied her mother, '' and remember
any one that mentions London is sent to Co-
ventry for an hour."

Soon after, Raymond arrived. He did not
join as usual in the playful spirit of the rest;
but, entering into conversation with Adrian and
myself, by degrees we seceded from our com-
panions, and Idris and Perdita only remained
with the children. Raymond talked of his new
buildings ; of his plan for an establishment for
the better education of the poor; as usual
Adrian and he entered into argument, and the
time slipped away unperceived.

We assembled again towards evening, and
Perdita" insisted on our having recourse to music.
She v/anted, she said, to give us a specimen of
her new accomplishment ; for since she had been
in London, she had applied herself to music, and
sang, without much power, but with a great deal
of sweetness. We were not permitted by her to
select any but light-hearted melodies; and all

THE LAST MAN 297

the Operas of iMozart were called into service,
that we might choose the most exhilarating of
his airs. Among the other transcendant attri-
butes of ]\fozart*s music, it possesses more than
any other that of appearing to come from the
heart ; you enter into the passions expressed by
him, and are transported with grief, joy, anger, or
confusion, as he, our soul's master, chooses to
inspire. For some time, the spirit of hilarity
was kept up ; but, at length, Perdita receded
from the piano, for Raymond had joined in
the trio of" Taci ingiusto core,'' in Don Gio-
vanni, whose arch entreaty was softened by him
into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with me-
mories of the changed past ; it was the same
voice, the same tone, the self-same sounds and
words, which often before she had received, as the
homage of love to her— no longer was it that ;
and this concord of sound with its dissonance of
expression penetrated her with regret and
despair. Soon after Idris, who was at the harp,
turned to that passionate and sorrowful air in
o 3

298 THE LAST MAK.

Figaro, ^'Porgi, amor, qualche listoro,^^ in which
the deserted Countess laments the chancre of the
faithless Ahuaviva. The soul of tender sorrow
is breathed forth in this strain ; and the sweet
voice of Idris, sustained by the mournful chords
of her instrument, added to the expression of
the words. During the pathetic appeal with
which it concludes, a stifled sob attracted our
attention to Perdita, the cessation of the music
recalled her to herself, she hastened out of the
hall — I followed her. At first, she seemed to
wish to shun me; and then, yielding to my
earnest questioning, she threw herself on my
neck, and wept aloud : — '* Once more," she cried,
'' once more on yojur friendly breast, my belovea
brother, can the lost Perdita pour forth her
sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on my-
self; and for months I have kept it. I do wrong
in weeping now, and greater wrong in giving
words to my grief. I will not speak ! Be
enough for you to know that I am miserable •
be it enough for you to know, that the paintej

THE LAST MAN. 299

veil of life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded
in darkness and gloom, that grief is my sister,
everlasting lamentation my mate !"

I endeavoured to console her ; I did not
question her ! but I caressed her, assured her
of my deepest affection and my intense in-
terest in the changes of her fortune: — " Dear
words,"' she cried, "expressions of love come
upon lily ear, like the remembered sounds
of forgotten music, that had been dear to me.
They are vain, I know ; how very vain in their
attempt to soothe or comfort me. Dearest
Lionel, you cannot guess what I have suffered
during these long months. I have read of
mourners in ancient days, who clothed them-
selves in sackcloth, scattered dust upon their
heads, ate their bread mingled with ashes, and
took up their abode on the bleak mountain tops,
reproaching heaven and earth aloud with their
misfortunes. Why this is the very luxury of
sorrow ! thus one might go on from day to day
contriving new extravagances, revelling in the

300 THE LAST MA.N\

paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the appur-
tenances of despair. Alas ! I must for ever
conceal the wretchedness that consumes me.
I must weave a veil of dazzling falsehood to
hide my grief from vulgar eyes, smoothe my
brow, and paint my lips in deceitful smiles —
even in solitude I dare not think how lost I am,
lest I become insane and rave."'

The tears and agitation of my poor sister
had rendered her unfit to return to the circle
we had left — so I persuaded her to let me drive
her through the park ; and, during the ride, I
induced her to confide the tale of her unhappi-
ness to me, fancying that talking of it would
lio-hten the burthen, and certain that, if there
were a remedy, it should be found and secured
to her.

Several weeks had elapsed since the festival
of the anniversary, and she had been unable
to calm her mind, or to subdue her thoughts to
any regular train. Sometimes she reproached
herself for taking too bitterlv to heart, that which

THE LAST MAX. 301

many would esteem an imaginary evil ; but this
was no subject for reason ; and, ignorant as she
was of the motives and true conduct of Ray-
mond, things assumed for her even a worse ap-
pearance, than the reahty warranted. He was
seldom at the palace ; never, but when he was
assured that his public duties would prevent his
remaining alone with Perdita. They seldom
addi'essed each other, shunning explanation,
each fearing any communication the other
might make. Suddenly, however, the manners
of Raymond changed ; he appeared to desire
to find opportunities of bringing about a return
to kindness and intimacy with my sister. The
tide of love towards her appeared to flow again ;
he could never forget, how once he had been
devoted to her, making her the shrine and
storehouse wherein to place every thought and
every sentiment. Shame seemed to hold him
back ; yet he evidently wished to establish
a renewal of confidence and affection. From

$0^ THE LAST :MAX.

the moment Perdita had sufficiently recovered
herself to form any plan of action, she had laid
one down, which now she prepared to follow.
She received these tokens of returning love with
gentleness ; she did not shun his company ; but
she endeavoured to place a barrier in the way
of familiar intercourse or painful discussion,
which mingled pride and shame prevented
Raymond from surmounting. He began at
last to shew signs of angry impatience, and
Perdita became aware that the system she had
adopted could not continue ; she must explain
herself to him ; she could not summon courage
to speak — she wrote thus : —

" Read this letter with patience, I entreat
you. It will contain no reproaches. Reproach
is indeed an idle word: for what should 1
reproach you?

" Allow me in some degree to explain my
feeling ; without that, we shall both grope in
the dark, mistaking one another ; erring from

THE LAST MAN.

the path which may conduct, one of ns at least,
to a more eligible mode of life than that led by
either during the last few weeks.

" I loved you — I love you — neither anger nor
pride dictates these lines ; but a feeling beyond,
deeper, and more unalterable than either. My
affections are wounded ; it is impossible to heal
them: — cease then the vain endeavour, if in-
deed that way your endeavours tend. Forgive-
ness ! Return ! Idle words are these ! I forgive
the pain I endure ; but the trodden path can-
not be retraced.

" Common affection might have been satis-
fied with common usages. I believed that you
read my heart, and knew its devotion, its un-
alienable fidelity towards you. I never loved
any but you. You came the embodied image
of my fondest dreams. The praise of men,
power and high aspirations attended your career.
Love for you invested the world for me in en-
chanted light ; it was no longer the earth I
trod^— the earth common mother, yielding only

304 THE LAST MAX.

trite and stale repetition of objects and circum-
stances old and worn out. I lived in a temple
glorified by intensest sense of devotion and
rapture ; I walked, a consecrated being, con-
templating only your power, your excellence ;

For O, you stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Cloathing the palpable and familiar
With goldea exhalations of the dawn.

* The bloom has vanished from my life"* — there
is no morning to this all investing night ; no rising
to the set-sun of love. In those days the rest of
the world was nothing to me : all other men —
I never considered nor felt what they were; nor
did I look on you as one of them. Separated
from them ; exalted in my heart ; sole possessor
of my affections ; single object of my hopes ,
the best half of myself.

"Ah, Raymond, were we not happy? Did
the sun shine on any, who could enjoy its light
with purer and more intense bliss .^ It was not —

THE LAST MAX. 305

it is not a common infidelity at which I repine.
It is the disunion of an whole which may not
have parts ; it is the carelessness "\nth which
you have shaken off the mantle of election
with which to me you were invested, and have
become one among the many. Dream not to
alter this. Is not love a divinity, because it is
immortal ? Did not I appear sanctified, even to
myself, J)ecause this love had for its temple my
heart ? I have gazed on you as you slept,
melted even to tears, as the idea filled my mind,
that all I possessed lay cradled in those ido-
lized, but mortal lineaments before me. Yet,
even then, I have checked thick-cominor fears
with one thought ; I would not fear death, for
the emotions that linked us must be immortal.

'* And now I do not fear death. I should be
well pleased to close my eyes, never more to
open them again. And yet I fear it; even as
I fear all things ; for in any state of being
linked by the chain of memory with this, hap-
piness would not return — even in Paradjse,

306 THE LAST MAN.

I must feel that your love was less enduring
than the mortal beatings of my fragile heart,
every pulse of which knells audibly.

The funeral note
Of love, deep buried, without resurrection.

No — no — me miserable ; for love extinct there
is no resurrection !

" Yet I love you. Yet, and for ever, would
I contribute all I possess to your welfare. On
account of a tattling world ; for the sake of my
— of our child, I would remain by you, Ray-
mond, share your fortunes, partake your coun-
sel. Shall it be thus ? We are no longer
lovers ; nor can I call myself a friend to any ;
since, lost as I am, I have no thought to spare
from my own wretched, engrossing self. But it
will please me to see you each day ! to listen to
the public voice praising you ; to keep up your
paternal love for our girl ; to hear your voice ;
to know that I am near you, though you are no
longer mine.

THE LAST MAN. 307

" If you wish to break the chains that bind
us, say the word, and it shall be done — I will
take all the blame on myself, of harshness or
unkindness, in the world's eye.

'^ Yet, as I have said, I should be best
pleased, at least for the present, to live under
the same roof with you. When the fever of
my young life is spent ; when placid age shall
tame the vulture that devours me, friendship
may come, love and hope being dead. jMay
this be true ? Can my soul, inextricably linked
to this perishable frame, become lethargic and
cold, even as this sensitive mechanism shall
loose its youthful elasticity.? Then, with lack-
lustre eyes, grey hairs, and wrinkled brow,
though now the words sound hollow and
meaningless, then, tottering on the grave's
extreme edge, I may be — your affectionate and
true friend,

" Perdita.'''

Raymond's answer was brief. What indeed

308 THE LAST MAX.

could he reply to her complaints, to her griefs
which she jealously paled round, keeping out
all thought of remedy. " Notwithstanding your
bitter letter," he wrote, " for bitter I must call
it, you are the chief person in my estimation,
and it is your happiness that I would principally
consult. Do that which seems best to you : and
if you can receive gratification from one mode
of life in preference to another, do not let me
be any obstacle. I foresee that the plan which
you mark out in your letter will not endure
long ; but you are mistress of yourself, and it
is my sincere wish to contribute as far as you
will permit nie to your happiness."

" Raymond has prophesied well, ' said Per-
dita, " alas, that it should be so ! our present
mode of life cannot continue long, yet I will not
be the first to propose alteration. He beholds
in me one whom he has injured even unto death ;
and I derive no hope from his kindness; no
change can possibly be brought about even by
his best intentions. As well might Cleopatra

THE LAST MAN. 309

have worn as an ornament the vinegar which
contained her dissolved pearl, as 1 be content
with the love that Raymond can now offer me."
I own that I did not see her misfortune with
the same eyes as Perdita. At all events me-
thought that the wound could be healed ; and, if
they remained togetherj^it would be so. I en-
deavoured therefore to sooth and soften her
mind ; and it was not until after many endea-
vours that I gave up the task as impracticable.
Perdita listened to me impatiently, and answered
with some asperity : — " Do you think that any
of your arguments are new to me ? or that my
owa burning wishes and intense anguish have not
suggested them all a thousand times, with far
more eagerness and subtlety than you can put
into them? Lionel, you cannot understand
what woman's love is. In days of happiness I
have often repeated to myself, with a grate-
ful heart and exulting spirit, all that Ray-
mond sacrificed for me. I was a poor, un-
educatedj imbefriended, mountain girl, raised

310 THE LAST MAN.

from nothingness by him. All that I possessed
of the luxuries of life came from him. He gave
me an illustrious name and noble station ; the
world's respect reflected from his own glory : all
his joined to his own undying love, inspired me
with sensations towards him, akin to those with
which we regard the Giver of hfe. I gave him
love only. I devoted myself to him : imperfect
creature that I was, I took myself to task, that
I might become worthy of him. I watched over
my hasty temper, subdued my burning im-
patience of character, schooled my self-engross-
ing thoughts, educating myself to the best per-
fection I might attain, that the fruit of my ex-
ertions might be his happiness. I took no merit
to myself for this. He deserved it all — all la-
bour, all devotion, all sacrifice ; I would have
toiled up a scaleless Alp, to pluck a flower that
would please him. I was ready to quit you all,
my beloved and gifted companions, and to live
only with him, for him. I could not do other-
wise, even if I had wished ; for if we are said to

THE LAST MAN 311

have two souls, he was my better soul, to which
the other was a perpetual slave. One onl)' re-
turn did he owe me, even fidelity. I earned
that ; I deserved it. Because I was mountain
bred, unallied to the noble and wealthy, shall
he think to repay me by an empty name and
station ? Let him take them back ; without his
love they are nothing to me. Their only merit
in my eyes was that they were his.

Thus passionately Perdita ran on. When I
adverted to the question of their entire separa-
tion, she replied : ** Be it so ! One day the
period will arrive; I know it, and feel it. But
in this I am a coward. This imperfect com-
panionship, and our masquerade of union, are
strangely dear to me. It is painful, I allow,
destructive, impracticable. It keeps up a per-
petual fever in my veins ; it frets my immedica-
ble wound ; it is instinct with poison. Yet I
must cling to it ; perhaps it wiU kill me soon,
and thus perform a thankful office."

In the mean time, Raymond had remained

312 THE LAST MAN.

with Adrian and Idris. He was naturally
frank ; the continued absence of Perdita and
myself became remarkable ; and Raymond soon
found relief from the constraint of months,
by an unreserved confidence with his two
friends. He related to them the situation in
which he had found Evadne. At first, from
delicacy to Adrian he concealed her name ; but
it was divulged in the course of his narrative,
and her former lover heard with the most acute
agitation the history of her sufferings. Idris
had shared Perdita's ill opinion of the Greek ;
but Raymond's account softened and interested
her. Evadne' s constancy, fortitude, even her
ill-fated and ill- regulated love, were matter of
admiration and pity ; especially when, from the
detail of the events of the nineteenth of Oc-
tober, it was apparent that she preferred suffer-
ing and death to any in her eyes degrading
application for the pity and assistance of her
lover. Her subsequent conduct did not diminish
this interest. At first, reheved from famine and

THE LAST MAJT. 313

\he grave, watched over by Raymond with the
tenderest assiduity, with that feeling of repose
pecuHar to convalescence, Evadne gave herself
up to rapturous gratitude and love. But reflec-
tion returned with health. She questioned him
with regard to the motives which had occa-
sioned his critical absence. She framed her en-
quiries with Greek subtlety ; she formed he^
conclusions with the decision and firmness pe-
culiar to her disposition. She could not divine,
that the breach which she had occasioned be-
tween Raymond and Perdita was already irre-
parable : but she knew, that under the present
system it would be widened each day, and that
its result must be to destroy her lover's happi-
ness, and to implant the fangs of remorse in his
heart. From the moment that she perceived
the right hne of conduct, she resolved to adopt
it, and to part from Raymond for ever. Con-
flicting passions, long-cherished love, and self-
inflicted disappointment, made her regard death"
alone as suflicient refuge for her woe. Uut the

VOL. I. P

S14 THE LAST MAN.

same feelings and opinions which had before re-
strained her, acted with redoubled force ; for she
knew that the reflection that he had occasioned
her death, w^ould pursue Raymond through life,
poisoning every enjoyment, clouding every
prospect. Besides, though the violence of her
anguish made life hateful, it had not yet pro-
duced that monotonous, lethargic sense of
changeless misery which for the most part pro-
duces suicide. Her energy of character induced
her still to combat with the ills of hfe ; even
those attendant on hopeless love presented them-
selves, rather in the shape of an adversary to be
overcome, than of a victor to whom she must
submit. Besides, she had memories of past
tenderness to cherish, smiles, words, and even
tears, to con over, which, though remembered in
desertion and sorrow, were to be preferred to
the forgetfulness of the grave. It was impos-
sible to guess at the whole of her plan. Her
letter to Raymond gave no clue for dis-
covery ; it assured him, that she was in no

THE LAST MAN. 315

danger of wanting the means of life ; she pro-
mised in it to preserve herself, and some future
day perhaps to present herself to him in a sta-
tion not unworthy of her. She then bade him,
with the eloquence of despair and of unalterable
love, a last farewell.

All these circumstances were now related to
Adrian and Idris. Raymond then lamented
the cureless evil of his situation with Perdita
He declared, notwithstanding her harshness, he
even called it coldness, that he loved her. He
had been ready once with the humihty of a
penitent, and the duty of a vassal, to surrender
himself to her ; giving up his very soul to her
tutelage, to become her pupil, her slave, her
bondsman. She had rejected these advances ;
and the time for such exuberant submission,
which must be founded on love and nourished
by it, was now passed. Still all his wishes and
endeavours were directed towards her peace,
and his chief discomfort arose from the percep-
tion that he exerted himself in vain. If she were
p 2

SIG THE LAST MAIir.

to continue inflexible in the line of conduct she
now pursued, they must part. The combina-
tions and occurrences of this senseless mode of
intercourse were maddening to him. Yet he
would not propose the separation. He wa.^^
haunted by the fear of causing the death of one
or other of the beings implicated in these
events ; and he could not persuade himself to
undertake to direct the course of events, lest,
ignorant of the land he traversed, he should lead
those attached to the car into irremediable ruin.
After a discussion on this subject, which
lasted for several hours, he took leave of his
friends, and returned to town, unwilling to
meet Perdita before us, conscious, as we all
must be, of the thoughts uppermost in the
minds of both. Perdita prepared to follow him
with her child. Idris endeavoured to persuade
her to remain. My poor sister looked at the
counsellor with affright. She knew that Ray-
mond had conversed with her ; had he instigat-
ed this request ? — was this to be the prelude to

THE LAST MAN. Sl7

their eternal separation ? — I have said, that th^
defects of her character awoke and acquired
vigour from her unnatural position. She regard-
ed with suspicion the invitation of Idris ; she
embraced me, as if she were about to be de-
prived of my affection also : calling me her
more than brother, her only friend, her last
hope, she pathetically conjured me not to cease
to love her ; and with encr eased anxiety she
departed for London, the scene and cause of all
her misery.

The scenes that followed, convinced her that
she had not yet fathomed the obscure gulph into
which she had plunged. Her unhappiness as-
sumed every day a new shape ; every day some
unexpected event seemed to close, while in fact
it led onward, the train of calamities which now
befell her.

The selected passiwiof the soul of Raymond
was ambition. Readiness of talent, a capacity
of entering into, and leading the dispositions
of men ; earnest desire of distinction were the

318 THE LAST MAN.

awakeners and nurses of his ambition. But
other ingredients mingled with these, and pre-
vented him from becoming the calculating, de-
termined character, which alone forms a suc-
cessful hero. He was obstinate, but not firm ;
benevolent in his first movements ; harsh and
reckless when provoked. Above all, he was
remorseless and unyielding in the pursuit of any
object of desire, however lawless. Love of
pleasure, and the softer sensibilities of our
nature, made a prominent part of his character,
conquering the conqueror; holding him in at
the moment of acquisition ; sweeping away
ambition's web; making hitn forget the toil of
weeks, for the sake of one moment's indulgence
of the new and actual object of his wishes.
Obeying these impulses, he had become the hus-
band of Perdita : egged on by them, he found
himself the lover of Evadne. He had now lost
both. He had neither the ennobling self-gra-
tulation, which constancy inspires, to con-
sole him, nor the voluptuous sense of abandon-

THE LAST MAN, 319

merit to a forbidden, but intoxicating passion.
His heart was exhausted by the recent events ;
his enjoyment of hfe was destroyed by the re-
sentment of Perdita, and the flight of Evadne ;
and the inflexibility of the former, set the last
seal upon the annihilation of his hopes. As
long as their disunion remained a secret, he
cherished an expectation of re-awakening past
tenderness in her bosom ; now that we Vtere all
made acquainted with these occurrences, and that
Perdita, by declaring her resolves to others, in
a manner pledged herself to their accomplish-
ment, he gave up the idea of re-union as futile,
and sought only, since he was unable to influence
her to change, to reconcile himself to the pre-
sent state of things. He made a vow against
love and its train of struggles, disappointment
and remorse, and sought in mere sensual enjoy-
ment, a remedy for the injurious inroads of
passion.

Debasement of character is the certain follower
of such pursuits. Yet this consequence would

320 THE LAST MA:N.

not have been immediately remarkable, if Ray-
mond had continued to apply himself to the
execution of his plans for the public benefit, and
the fulfilhng his duties as Protector. But,
extreme in all things, given up to immediate
impressions, he entered with ardour into this new-
pursuit of pleasure, and followed up the incon-
gruous intimacies occasioned by it without reflec-
tion or foresight. The council-chamber was
deserted ; the crowds which attended on him as
agents to his various projects were neglected.
Festivity, and even libertinism^ became the order
of the day.

Ferdita beheld with affright the encreasing
disorder. For a moment she thought that she
could stem the torrent, and that Raymond could
be induced to hear reason from her. — Vain hope t
The moment of her influence was passed. He
listened with haughtiaess, replied disdainfully ;
and, if in trutli, she succeeded in awakening his
c(Hiscience, the sole effect was that he sought an
opiate for the pang in oblivious riot. With the

THE LAST MAX.

3^1

energy natural to her, Perdita then endeavoured
to supply his place. Their still apparent union
permitted her to do much ; but no woman could,
in the end, present a remedy to the encreasing
negligence of the Protector ; who, as if seized
with a paroxysm of insanity, trampled on all
ceremony, all order, all duty, and gave himself
up to license.

Reports of these strange proceedings reached
us, and we were undecided what method to
adopt to restore our friend to himself and his
country, when Perdita suddenly appeared among
us. She detailed the progress of the mournful
change, and entreated Adrian and myself to go
up to London, and endeavour to remedy the
encreasing evil : — " Tell him,"" she cried, " tell
Lord Raymond, that my presence shall no longer
annoy him. That he need not plunge into this
destructive dissipation for the sake of disgustuig
me, and causing me to fly. This purpose is
now accomplished ; he will never see me more.
But let me, it is my last entreaty, let me in the
p 3

THE LAST MAN.

praises of his countrymen and the prosperity of
England, find the choice of my youth justified.''
During our ride up to town, Adrian and I
discussed and argued upon Raymond's conduct^
and his falling off from the hopes of permanent
excellence on his part, which he had before given
us cause to entertain. My friend and I had
both been educated in one school, or rather I was
his pupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to
principle was the only road to honour ; a ceaseless
observance of the laws of general utility, the
only conscientious aim of human ambition. But
though we both entertained these ideas, we dif-
fered in their application. Resentment added
also a sting to my censure ; and I reprobated
Raymond's conduct in severe terms. Adrian
was more benign, more considerate. He ad-
mitted that the principles that I laid down were
the best ; but he denied that they were the only
ones. Quoting the text, there are many man-
sions in my father s house, he insisted that the
modes of becoming good or great, varied as

THE LAST MAN. 323

much as the dispositions of men, of whom it
might be said, as of the leaves of the forest,
there were no two aUke.

We arrived in London at about eleven at
night. We conjectured, notwithstanding what
we had heard, that we should find Raymond in
St. Stephen's: thither we sped. The chamber
was full — but there was no Protector ; and there
was an austere discontent manifest on the coun-
tenances of the leadeis, and a whispering and
busy tattle among the underlings, not less omi-
nous. We hastened to the palace of the Pro-
tectorate. We found Raymond in his dining
room with six others: the bottle was being
pushed about merrily, and had made consider-
able inroads on the understanding of one or two.
He who sat near Raymond was telling a story,
which convulsed the rest with laughter.

Raymond sat among them, though while he
entered into the spirit of the hour, his natural
dignity never forsook him. He was gay, play-
ful, fascinating — but never did he overstep the

524 THE LAST MA]!^.

modesty of nature, or the respect due to himself^
in his wildest salhes. Yet I own, that consi-
dering the task which Raymond had taken on
himself as Protector of England, and the cares
to which it became him to attend, I w as ex-
ceedingly provoked to observe the worthless
fellows on whom his time was v/asted, and the
jovial if not drunken spirit which seemed on the
point of robbing him of his better self I stood
watching the scene, while Adrian flitted like a
shadow in among them, and, by a word and look
of sobriety, endeavoured to restore order in the
assembly. Raymond expressed himself de-
lighted to see him, declaring that he should
make one in the festivity of the night.

This action of Adrian provoked me. I was
indignant that he should sit at the same table
with the companions of Raymond-^men of
abandoned characters, or rather without any,
the refuse of high-bred luxury, the disgrace of
their country. *' Let me entreat Adrian,'' I
cried, " not to comply : rather join with me

THE LAST MAN. 525

in endeavouring to withdraw Lord Raymond
from this scene, and restore him to other so-
ciety."

" My good fellow," said Raymond, " this is
neither the time nor place for the delivery of a
moral lecture : take my word for it that my
amusements and society are not so bad as you
imagine. We are neither hypocrites or fools —
for the rest, ' Dost thou think because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale ?' "

I turned angrily away : '' Verney," said
Adrian, " you are very cynical : sit down ; or if
you w\\l not, perhaps, as you are not a frequent
visitor. Lord Raymond will humour you, and
accompany us, as we had previously agreed upon,
to parliament."

Raymond looked keenly at him ; he could
read benignity only in his gentle lineaments ; he
turned to me, observing with scorn my moody
and stern demeanour. " Come,'" said Adrian,
" I have promised for you, enable me to keep

326 THE LAST MAN.

my engagement. Come with us."" Ray-
mond made an uneasy movement, and laconi-
cally replied — " T won!tJ''*

The party in the mean time had broken up.
They looked at the pictures, strolled into the
other apartments, talked of billiards, and one
by one vanished. Raymond strode angrily up
and down the room. I stood ready to receive
and reply to his reproaches. Adrian leaned
against the wall. " This is infinitely ridicu-
lous," he cried. " if you were school-boys, you
could not conduct yourselves more unreasonably.*"

" You do not understand,'"' said Raymond.
" This is only part of a system : — a scheme of
tyranny to which I will never submit. Because
I am Protector of England, am I to be the
only slave in its empire ? My privacy invaded,
my actions censured, my friends insulted ? But
I will get rid of the whole together. — Be you
witnesses,"" and he took the star, insignia of
office, from his breast, and threw it on the table.

THE LAST MAN. 2^7

" I renounce my office, I abdicate my power —

assume it who will !"

" Let him assume it,'^ exclaimed Adrian,
" who can pronounce himself, or whom the world
will pronounce to be your superior. There does
not exist the man in England with adequate
presumption. Know yourself, Raymond, and
your indignation will cease ; your complacency
return. A few months ago, whenever we prayed
for the prosperity of our country, or our own,
we at the same time prayed for the life and wel-
fare of the Protector, as indissolubly linked to
it. Your hours were devoted to our benefit,
your ambition was to obtain our commendation.
You decorated our towns with edifices, you
bestowed on us useful establishments, j^ou
gifted the soil with abundant fertility. The
powerful and unjust cowered at the steps of
your judgment-seat, and the poor and oppressed
arose like mom-awakened flowers under the
sunshine of your protection.

SS8 . YHK LAST MaK,

*' Can you wonder that we are all aghast
and mourn, when this appears changed ? But,
come, this splenetic fit is already passed ; re-
sume your functions ; your partizans will hail
you ; your enemies be silenced ; our love,
honour, and duty will again be manifested to-
wards you. Master yourself, Raymond, and
the world is subject to you/'

" All this would be very good sense, if ad-
dressed to another,"*' replied Raymond, moodily,
" con the lesson yourself, and you, the first
peer of the land, may become its sovereign.
You the good, the wise, the just, may rule all
hearts. But I perceive, too soon for my own
happiness, too late for England's good, that I un-
dertook a task to which I am unequal. I can-
not rule myself. My passions are my masters ;
my smallest impulse my tyrant. Do you think
that I renounced the Protectorate (and I have
renounced it) in a fit of spleen ? By the God
that lives, I swear never to take up that baubje

THE LAST MAX. S29

again ; never again to burthen myself with the'
weight of care and misery, of which that is the
visible sign.

" Once I desired to be a king. It was in the
hey-day of youth, in the pride of boyish folly.
I knew myself when I renounced it. I re-
nounced it to gain — no matter what — for that
also I have lost. For many months I have sub-
mitted to this mock majesty — this solemn jest.
I am its dupe no longer. I will be free.

" I have lost that which adorned and digni-
fied my life ; that which linked me to other
men. Again I am a solitary man ; and I will
become again, as in my early years, a wanderer,
a soldier of fortune. My friends, for Verney, I
feel that you are my friend, do not endeavour
to shake my resolve. Perdita, wedded to an
imagination, careless of what is behind the veil,
whose charactery is in truth faulty and vile,
Perdita has renounced me. With her it was
pretty enough to play a sovereign's part ; and,
as in the recesses of your beloved forest we

3S0 THE LAST MAK.

acted masques, and imagined ourselves Arca-
dian shepherds, to please the fancy of the mo-
meait — so was I content, more for Perdita's
sake than my own, to take on me the character
of one of the great ones of the earth ; to lead
her behind the scenes of grandeur, to vary her
life with a short act of magnificence and power.
This was to be the colour ; love and confidence
the substance of our existence. But Ave must
live, and not act our lives ; pursuing the shadow,
I lost the reality — now I renounce both.

*"* Adrian, I am about to return to Greece,
to become again a soldier, perhaps a conqueror.
Will you accompany me ? You will behold new
scenes ; see a new people ; witness the mighty
struggle there going forward between civiliza-
tion and barbarism ^ behold, and perhaps direct
the efforts of a young and vigorous population,
for liberty and order. Come with me. I have
expected you. I waited for this moment ; all
is prepared; — will you accompany me ?^''

" I will,'" replied Adrian.

THE LAST MAN. 3S1

" Immediately ?""

*' To-morrow if you will.'*'

'^ Reflect r I cried.

" Wherefore?" asked Raymond — " ^ly dear
fellow, I have done nothing else than reflect on
this step the live-long summer ; and be assured
that Adrian has condensed an age of reflection
into this little moment. Do not talk of reflection ;
from this moment I abjure it ; this is my only
happy moment during a long inter^^al of time.
I must go, Lionel— the Gods will it; and I
must. Do not endeavour to deprive me of my
companion, the out-cast's friend.

" One word more concerning unkind, unjust
Perdita. For a time, I thought that, by watch-
ing a complying moment, fostering the still
warm ashes, I might relume in her the flame of
love. It is more cold w^ithin her, than a fire left
by gypsies in winter-timie, the spent embers
crowned by a pyramid of snow. Then, in en-
deavouring to do violence to my own disposition,
I made all worse than before. Still I think,

dS2 THE LAST MAN.

that time, and even absence, may restore her to
me. Remember, that I love her still, that my
dearest hope is that she will again be mine. I
know, though she does not, how false the veil is
which she has spread over the reality — do not
endeavour to rend this deceptive covering, but
by degrees withdraw it. Present her with a
mirror, in which she may know herself; and,
when she is an adept in that necessary but diffi-
cult science, she will wonder at her present mis-
take, and hasten to restore to me, what is by
right mine, her forgiveness, her kind thoughts,
her love."

THE LAST MAN.

CHAPTER X.

Aftee these events, it v/as long before we
were able to attain any degree of composure.
A moral tempest had wrecked our richly
freighted vessel, and we, remnants of the dimi-
nished crew, were aghast at the losses and
changes which we had undergone. Idris
passionately loved her brother, and could ill
brook an absence whose duration was uncer-
tain ; his society was dear and necessary
to me— I had followed up my chosen Ute-
rary occupations witli dehght under his tu-
torship and assistance; his mild philosophy,
unerring reason, and enthusiastic friendship

334 THE LAST MAN.

were the best ingredient, the exalted spirit of
our circle ; even the children bitterly regretted
the loss of their kind playfellow. Deeper grief
oppressed Perdita. In spite of resentment, by
day and night she figured to herself the toils
and dangers of the wanderers. Raymond ab-
sent, struggling with difficulties, lost to the
power and rank of the Protectorate, exposed to
the perils of war, became an object of anxious
interest ; not that she felt any inclination to
recall him, if recall must imply a return to their
former union. Such return she felt to be im-
possible ; and while she believed it to be thus,
and with anguish regretted that so it should be,
she continued angry and impatient with him,
who occasioned her misery. These perplexities
and regrets caused her to bathe her pillow with
nightly tears, and to reduce her in person and
in mind to the shadow of what slie had been.
She sought solitude, and avoided us when in
gaiety and unrestrained affection we met in a
family circle. Lonely musings, interminable

THE LAST MAN. 335

wanderings, and solemn music were her only
pastimes. She neglected even her child ; shut-
ting her heart against all tendernes?, she grew
reserved towards me, her first and fast friend,

I could not see her thus lost, without exert-
ing myself to remedy the evil — remediless I
knew, if I could not in the end bring her to re-
concile herself to Raymond. Before he went I
used every argument, every persuasion to induce
her to stop his journey. She answered the one
with a gush of tears — telling me that to be per-
suaded— life and the goods of life were a cheap
exchange. It was not will that she wanted, but
the capacity ; again and again she declared, it
were as easy to enchain the sea, to put reins on
the wind's viewless courses, as for her to take
truth for falsehood, deceit for honesty, heartless
communion for sincere, confiding love. She
answered my reasonings more briefly, declaring
with disdain, that the reason was hers ; and, un-
til I could persuade her that the past could be
unacted, that maturity could go back to the

336 THE LAST MAN.

cradle, and that all that was could become as
though it had never been, it was useless to as-
sure her that no real change had taken place in
her fate. And thus with stern pride she suffered
him to go, though her very heart-strings cracked
at the fulfilling of the act, which rent from her
all that made life valuable.

To change the scene for her, and even for
ourselves, all unhinged by the cloud that had
come over us, I persuaded my two remaining com-
panions that it were better that we should absent
ourselves for a time from Windsor, We visited
the north of England, my native Ulsv\ ater, and
lingered in scenes dear from a thousand associa-
tions. We lengthened our tour into Scotland,
that we might see Loch Katrine and Loch Lo-
mond ; thence we crossed to Ireland, and passed
several weeks in the neighbourhood of Killarney.
The change of scene operated to a great degree
as I expected ; after a year's absence, Per-
dita returned in gentler and more docile mood
to Windsor. The first sight of this place for a

THE LAST xMAN. 337

time unhinged her. Here every spot was dis-
tinct with associations now fjrown bitter. The
forest glades, the ferny dells, and lawny up-
lands, the cultivated and cheerful country spread
around the silver pathway of ancient Thames,
all earth, air, and wave, took up one choral
voice, inspired by memory, instinct with plain-
tive regret.

But my essay towards bringing her to a saner
view of her own situation, did not end here.
Perdita was still to a great degree uneducated.
When first she left her peasant life, and resided
with the elegant and cultivated Evadne, the
only accomplishment she brought to any perfec-
tion was that of painting, for which she had a
taste almost amounting to genius. This had
occupied her in her lonely cottage, when she
quitted her Greek friend's protection. Her
pallet and easel were now thrown aside; did
she try to paint, thronging recollections made
her hand tremble, her eyes fill with tears. With

VOL. I. ft

338 THE LAST MAN.

this occupation she gave up ahnost every other ;
and her mind preyed upon itself almost to
madness.

For my own part, since Adrian had first
withdrawn me from my selvatic wilderness to
his own paradise of order and beauty, I had
been wedded to literature. I felt convinced
that however it might have been in former
times, in the present stage of the world, no
man's faculties could be developed, no man's
moral principle be enlarged and liberal, without
an extensive acquaintance with books. To me
they stood in the place of an active career, of
ambition, and those palpable excitements neces-
sary to the multitude. The collation of philo-
sophical opinions, the study of historical facts,
the acquirement of languages, w^re at once my
recreation, and the serious aim of my life. I
turned author myself. My productions how-
ever were sufficiently unpretending ; they were
confined to the biography of favourite historical

THE LAST MAN. 339

characters, especially those whom I believed to
have been traduced, or about whom clung ob-
scurity and doubt.

As my authorship increased, I acquired new
sympathies and pleasures. I found another and
a valuable link to enchain me to my fellow-crea-
tures ; my point of sight was extended, and tlie
inclinations and capacities of all human beings
became deeply interesting to me. Kings have
been called the fathers of their people. Sud-
denly I became as it were the father of all
mankind. Posterity became my heirs. My
thoughts were gems to enrich the treasure house
of man's intellectual possessions ; each sentiment
was a precious gift I bestowed on them. Let
not these aspirations be attributed to vanity.
They were not expressed in words, nor even
reduced to form in my own mind; but they
filled my soul, exalting my thoughts, raising a
glow of enthusiasm, and led me out of the
obscure path in which I before walked, into the
bright noon-enlightened highway of mankind,

340 THE LAST MAN.

making me, citizen of the world, a candidate for
immortal nonors, an eager aspirant to the praise
and sympathy of my fellow men.

No one certainly ever enjoyed the pleasures
of composition more intensely than I. If I left
the woods, the solemn music of the waving
branches, and the majestic temple of nature,
I sought the vast halls of th? Castle, and looked
over wide, fertile England, spread beneath our
regal mount, and listened the while to inspiring
strains of music. At such times solemn har-
monies or spirit-stirring airs gave wings to my
lagging thoughts, permitting them, methought,
to penetrate the last veil of nature and her
God, and to display the highest beauty in visible
expression to the understandings of men. As
the music went on, my ideas seemed to quit
their mortal dwelling house ; they shook their
pinions and began a flight, sailing on the placid
current of thought, filling the creation with ne^^
glory, and rousing sublime imagery that else
had slept voiceless. Then I would hasten to

THE LAST MAN. 341

my desk, weave the new-found web of mind in
firm texture and brilliant colours, leaving the
fashioning of the material to a calmer moment.

But this account, which might as properly
belong to a former period of my life as to the
present moment, leads me far afield. It was the
pleasure I took in literature, the discipline of
mind I found arise from it, that made me eager
to lead Perdita to the same pursuits, I began
with light hand and gentle allurement ; first
exciting her curiosity, and then satisfying it in
such a way as might occasion her, at the same
time that she half forgot her sorrows in occupa-
tion, to find in the hours that succeeded a re-
action of benevolence and toleration.

Intellectual activity, though not directed to-
wards books, had always been my sister's cha-
racteristic. It had been displayed earl}' in life,
leading her out to solitary musing among her
native mountains, causing her to form innumer-
ous combinations from common objects, giving
strength to her perceptions, and swiftness to

S42 THE LAST MAN.

their arrangement. Love had come, as the rod
of the master-prophet, to swallow up every
minor propensity. Love had doubled all her
excellencies, and placed a diadem on her genius.
Was she to cease to love ? Take the colours
and odour from the rose, change the sweet
nutriment of mother's milk to gall and poison ;
as easily might you wean Perdita from love.
She grieved for the loss of Raymond with an
anguish, that exiled all smile from her lips, and
trenched sad lines on her brow of beauty. But
each day seemed to change the nature of her
suffering, and every succeeding hour forced her
to alter (if so I may style it) the fashion of her
soul's mourning garb. For a time music was
able to satisfy the cravings of her mental
hunger, and her melancholy thoughts renewed
themselves in each change of key, and varied
with every alteration in the strain. My school-
ing first impelled her towards books ; and, if
music had been the food of sorrow, the produc-
tions of the wise became its medicine.

THE LAST MAN. 34S

The acquisition of unknown languages was
too tedious an occupation, for one who referred
every expression to the universe within, and
read not, as many do, for the mere sake of filling
up time ; but who was still questioning herself
and her author, moulding every idea in a
thousand ways, ardently desirous for the dis-
covery of truth in every sentence. She sought
to improve her understanding ; mechanically her
heart and dispositions became soft and gentle
under this benign discipline. After awhile she
discovered, that amidst all her newly acquired
knowledge, her own character, which formerly
she fancied that she thoroughly understood, be-
came the first in rank among the terrae incog-
nitae, the pathless wilds of a country that had
no chart. Erringly and strangely she began the
task of self-examination with self-condemnation.
And then again she became aware of her own ex-
cellencies, and began to balance with juster scales
the shades of good and evil. I, who longed
beyond words, to restore her to the happiness

34)4 , THE LAST MAN.

it was still in her power to enjoy, watched with
anxiety the result of these internal proceedings.

But man is a strange animal. We cannot
calculate on his forces like that of an engine ;
and, though an impulse draw with a forty-horse
power at what appears willing to yield to one,
yet in contempt of calculation the movement is
not effected. Neither gi'ief, philosophy, nor love
could make Perdita think with mildness of the
dereliction of Raymond. She now took plea-
sure in my society ; towards Idris she felt and
displayed a full and affectionate sense of her
worth — she restored to her child in abundant
measure her tenderness and care. But I could
discover, amidst all her repinings, deep resent-
ment towards Raymond, and an unfading sense
of injury, that plucked from me my hope, when
I appeared nearest to its fulfilment. Among
other painful restrictions, she has occasioned it
to become a law among us, never to mention
Raymond's name before her. She refused to
read any communications from Greece, desiring

THE LAST MAN, 345

YYie only to mention wlien any arrived, and
whether the wanderers were well. It was cu-
rious that even little Clara observed this law
towards her mother. This lovely child was
nearly eight years of age. Fc«-merly she had
been a light-hearted infant, fanciful^ but gay and
childish. After the departure of her father,
thought became imprcssed on her young brow.
Children, unadepts in langua^e^ seldom find
words to express their thoughts, nor could we
tell in what manner the late events had impressed-
themselves on her mind. But certainly she had
made deep observations while she noted in si-
lence the changes that passed around her. She
never mentioned her father to Perdita, she ap-
peared half afraid when she spoke of him to
me, and though I tried to draw her out on the
subject, and to dispel the gloom that hung
about her ideas concerning him, I could not
succeed. Yet each foreign post-day she watched
for the arrival of letters — knew the post mar*<\
and watched me as I read. I found her often
Q ^

S46 THE LAST MAN.

porinoj over the article of Greek intelligence m
the newspaper.

There is no more painful sight than that of
untimely care in children, and it was particu-
larly observable in one whose disposition had
heretofore been mirthful. Yet there was so
much sweetness and docility about Clara, that
your admiration was excited ; and if the moods
of mind are calculated to paint the cheek with
beauty, and endow motions with grace, surely her
contemplations must have been celestial ; since
every lineament was moulded into loveliness,
and her motions were more harmonious than the
elegant boundings of the fawns of her native
forest. I sometimes expostulated with Perdita
on the subject of her reserve ; but she rejected
my counsels, while her daughter's sensibility
excited 'in her a tenderness still more passionate.

After the lapse of more than a year, Adrian
returned from Greece.

When our exiles had first arrived, a truce
was in existence between the Turks and Greeks ;

THE LAST MAN. 347

a truce that was as sleep to the mortal frame,
signal of renewed activity on waking. With
the numerous soldiers of Asia, with all of
warhke stores, ships, and military engines, that
wealth and power could command, the Turks
at once resolved to crush an enemy, which
<a*eeping on by degrees, had from their strong-
hold in the Morea, acquired Thrace and Mace-
donia, and had led their armies even to the
gates of Constantinople, while their extensive
commercial relations gave every European na-
tion an interest in their success. Greece pre-
pared for a vigorous resistance ; it rose to a
man ; and the women, sacrificing their costly
ornaments, accoutred their sons for the war, and
bade them conquer or die with the spirit
of the Spartan mother. The talents and courage
of Raymond were highly esteemed among the
Greeks. Born at Athens, that city claimed
him for her own, and by giving him the com-
mand of her peculiar division in the army, the
commander-in-chief only possessed superior

348 THE LAST MAN.

power. He was numbered amoDg her citizens,
his name was added to the list of Grecian heroes.
His judgment, activity, and consummate bra-
very, justified their choice. The Earl of Wind-
sor became a volunteer under his friend.

'" It is well," said Adrian, " to prate of war
in these pleasant shades, and with much ill-spent
oil make a show of joy, because many thousand
of our fellow- creatures leave with pain this
sweet air and natal earth. I shall not be sus-
pected of being averse to the Greek cause ; I
know and feel its necessity ; it is beyond every
other a good cause. I have defended it with
my sword, and was willing that my spirit
should be breathed out in its defence ; freedom
is of more worth than life, and the Greeks do
well to defend their privilege unto death.
But let us not deceive ourselves. The Turks
are men ; each fibre, each limb is as feeling as
our own, and every spasm, be it mental or

dily, is as truly felt in a Turk's heart or
and brain, as in a Greek's. The last action at

THK LAST MAX, 849

>vhich I was present was the taking of .

The Turks resisted to the last, the garrison
perished on the ramparts, and we entered by
assault. Every breathing creature within the
walls was massacred. Think you, amidst the
shrieks of violated innocence and helpless infancy,
I did not feel in eyery nerve the cry of a feUow
being ? They were men and women, the suf-
ferers, before they were Mahometans, and when
they rise turbanless from the grave, in what
except their good or evil actions will they be the
better or worse than we ? Two soldiers con-
tended for a girl, whose rich dress and extreme
beauty excited the brutal appetites of these
wretches, who, perhaps good men among their
families, were changed by the fury of the mo-
ment into incarnated evils. An old man, with
a silver beard, decrepid and bald, he might be
her grandfather, interposed to save her; the
battle axe of one of them clove his skull. I
rushed to her defence, but rage made them bhnd
and deaf; they did not distinguish my Christian

350 THE LAST MAN.

garb or heed my words — words were blunt
weapons then, for while war cried " havoc,''
and murder gave fit echo, how could I —

Turn back the tide of ills, relieving wrong
With mild accost of soothing eloquence ?

One of the fellows, enraged at my interference,
struck me with his bayonet in the side, and I
fell senseless.

" This wound will probably shorten my life,
having shattered a frame, weak of itself. But I
am content to die. I have learnt in Greece
that one man, more or less, is of small import,
while human bodies remain to fill up the
thinned ranks of the soldiery ; and that th«
identity of an individual may be overlooked, so
that the muster roll contain its full numbers.
All this has a difierent effect upon Raymond.
He is able to contem.plate the ideal of war,
while I am sensible only to its realities. He is
a soldier, a general. He can influence the blood-
thirsty war-dogs, while I resist their propensi-
ties vainly. The cause is simple. Burke has

THE LAST MAN. 351

said that, ' in all bodies those who would lead,
must also, in a considerable degree, follow.' — I
cannot follow ; for I do not sympathize in their
dreams of massacre and glory — to follow and to
lead in such a career, is the natural bent of
Raymond's mind. He is always successful,
and bids fair, at the same time that he acquires
high name and station for himself, to secure
liberty, probably extended empire, to the
Greeks.""

Perdita's mind w as not softened by this ac-
count. He, she thought, can be great and
happy without me. Would that I also had a
career ! Would that I could freight some un-
tried bark with all my hopes, energies, and de-
sires, and launch it forth into the ocean of life
— bound for some attainable point, with ambi-
tion or pleasure at the helm ! Eut adverse
winds detain me on shore ; Hke Ulysses, I sit at
the water's edge and w^eep. But my nerveless
hands can neither fell the trees, nor smooth the
planks. Under the influence of these melan-

352 THE LAST MAX.

choly thoughts, she became more than ever m
love with sorrow. Yet Adrian's presence did
some good ; he at once broke through the law of
alence observed concerning Raymond. At first
she started from the unaccustomed sound ; soon
slie got used to it and to love it, and she listened
with avidity to die account of his achievements.
Clara got rid also of her restraint ; Adrian and
she had been old playfellows ; and now, as they
walked or rode together, he yielded to her earnest
entreaty, and repeated, for the hundredth time,
some tale of her father's bravery, munificence,
or justice.

Each vessel in the mean time brouorht exhi-

o

larating tidings from Greece. The presence
of a friend in its armies and councils made us
enter into the details with enthusiasm ; and a
short letter now and then from Raymond 'told
us how he was engrossed by the interests of his
adopted country. The Greeks were strongly
attached to their commercial pursuits, and
would have, been satisfied with their present ac-

THE LAST MAN. S53

quisitions, had not the Turks roused them by
invasion. The patriots were victorious; a
spirit of conquest was instilled; and already
they looked on Constantinople as their own.
Raymond rose perpetually in their estimation ;
but one man held a superior command to him
in their armies. He was conspicuous for his
conduct and choice of position in a battle fought
in the plains of Thrace, on the banks of the
Hebrus, which was to decide the fate of Islam.
The Mahometans were defeated, and driven
entirely from the country west of this river.
The battle was sanguinary, the loss of the
Turks apparently irreparable; the Greeks, in
losing one man, forgot the nameless crowd
strewed upon the bloody field, and they ceased
to value themselves on a victory, which cost
them — Raymond.

At the battle of Makri he had led the charge
of cavalry, and pursued the fugitives even to
the banks of the Hebrus. His favourite horse
was found grazing by the margin of the tranquil

854 THE LAST MAN.

river. It became a question whether he had
fallen among the unrecognized ; but no broken
ornament or stained trapping betrayed his fate.
It was suspected that the Turks, finding them-
selves possessed of so ilhistrious a captive, re-
solved to satisfy their cruelty rather than their
avarice, and fearful of the interference of Eng-
land, had come to the determination of concealing
for ever the cold-blooded murder of the soldier
they most hated and feared in the squadrons of
their enemy.

Raymond was not forgotten in England.
His abdication of the Protectorate had caused
an unexampled sensation ; and, when his mag-
nificent and manly system was contrasted with
the narrow views of succeeding poHticians, the
period of his elevation was referred to with
sorrow. The perpetual recurrence of his
name, joined to most honourable testimonials, in
the Greek gazettes, kept up the interest he had
excited. He seemed the favourite child of for-
tune, and his untimely loss eclipsed the world,

THE l.AST MAN. 355

and shewed forth the remnant of mankind with
diminished lustre. They clung with eagerness
to the hope held out that he might yet be alive.
Their minister at Constantinople was urged to
make the necessary perquisitions, and should his
existence be ascertained, to demand his release.
It was to be hoped that their efforts would suc-
ceed, and that though now a prisoner, the sport
of cruelty and the mark of hate, he would be
rescued from danger and restored to the hap-
piness, power, and honour which he deserved.

The effect of this intelligence upon my sister
was striking. She never for a moment credited
the story of his death; she resolved instantly
to go to Greece. Reasoning and persuasion
were thrown away upon her ; she would endure
no hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced
for a truth, that, if argument or entreaty can
turn any one from a desperate purpose, whose
motive and end depends on the strength of the
affections only, then it is right so to turn them^

^56

THE LAST MAN.

since their docility shews, that neither the mo-
tive nor the end were of sufficient force to bear
them through the obstacles attendant on their
undertaking. If, on the contrary, they are proof
against expostulation, this very steadiness is
an omen of success ; and it becomes the duty of
those who love them, to assist in smoothing the
obstructions in their path. Such sentiments ac-
tuated our little circle. Finding Perdita im-
moveable, we consulted as to the best means of
furthering her purpose. She could not go alone
to a country where she had no friends, where she
might arrive only to hear the dreadful news,
which must overwhelm her with grief and re-
morse. Adrian, whose health had always been
weak, now suffered considerable aggravation of
suffering from the effects of his wound. Idris
could not endure to leave him in this state ; nor
was it right either to quit or take with us a
young family for a journey of this description.
I resolved at length to accompany Perdita.

THE LAST MAN. 357

The separation from my Idris was painful — but
necessity reconciled us to it in some degree:
necessity and the hope of saving Raymond, and
restoring him again to happiness and Perdita.
No delay was to ensue. Two days after we
came to our determination, we set out for Ports-
mouth, and embarked. The season was May,
the weather stormless; we were promised a
prosperous voyage. Cherishing the most fer-
vent hopes, embarked on the waste ocean, we
saw with dehght the receding shore of Britain,
and on the wings of desire outspeeded our well
filled sails towards the South. The light curl-
ing waves bore us onward, and old ocean smiled
at the freight of love and hope committed to
his charge ; it stroked gently its tempestuous
plains, and the path was smoothed for us. Day
and night the wind right aft, gave steady im-
pulse to our keel — nor did rough gale, or
treacherous sand, or destructive rock interpose
an obstacle between my sister and the land

358 THE LAST MAN.

which was to restore her to her first be-
loved,

Her dear heart's confessor — a heart within that heart.

END OF VOL. I.

SIUCKEfcl, AREOWSMITH Ss HODGES, JOHNSON S-COURT, FiEET-STREET

r^

Nl

y-\

^!i^'

mj^^/^